


Keep The Creatures Safe From Harm

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Self-Sacrifice, prison fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the tragic events at the end of <b>In the Wind</b>, Peter is facing the ultimate penalty and Neal is prepared to do whatever it takes to keep that from happening. Even as old enemies are sharpening their knives, Peter and Neal are not without friends</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep The Creatures Safe From Harm

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Many, many thanks to my trio of beta readers and cheerleaders - Coffeethyme4me, Jrosemary and Rabidchild, who gave unstintingly of their time as this turned from a vague idea for some dirty prison fic into a massive and angst-ridden epic. And my deepest appreciation to the ladies of the wcwu chats, whose enthusiasm for this story boosted my confidence and kept me going.

“Bail is denied.” The judge bangs his gavel and the guard pulls him away. Peter doesn’t resist, he’s too stunned. 

His lawyer, Claude, is a seasoned professional. He assures him that they will file a motion for reconsideration before the end of the day. Claire Bainbridge, the Assistant U.S. Attorney, a woman he’s known for a half-dozen years and someone he considers a friend, refuses to meet his eyes. El manages to hold him for a too-brief second. Over her head, he sees Diana and Clinton, they are furious. So is the rest of his team, lined up behind them. 

And there is Neal – blue eyes blazing, icy pale. He’s ready to …

“No – don’t,” Peter shakes his head. Neal is going to fall on his sword, take the blame, but it will only make this worse. He’ll get out of this. He has to.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal plots and paces. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

He makes plans to break Peter out. He works out how he and Moz could get him on a plane to Cape Verde. That would be the best place for him. No extradition, after all.

He thinks about how to get his father – how to get James Bennett ( _that fucking bastard_ ) – to confess to shooting Pratt. He remembers the moment when James turned to leave, when he barked at him, _NO_ , and he remembers other moments, long buried: his mother crying in the darkness, a man shouting, the sounds of a hand hitting flesh.

Those memories explain the shock at the moment.

_anger and fear_ – _hide, keep quiet, no one will find you_

They could be his memories, they could be something else. He doesn’t know and it doesn’t matter. James is in the wind, he’s gone. Pratt’s gun is gone. 

Peter’s gone.

Nothing matters more than saving Peter – his life, his sanity, his soul. His own life isn’t worth anything if Peter isn’t in this world.

Neal knows what he has to do.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The first night in prison, Peter doesn’t sleep. He’s hyper-aware, conscious of every sound, every movement. There are guards stationed on either side of his cell door. He’s a Fed, a target, and they are supposed to make sure no one tries anything. Except that guards can be paid off and he could easily end up hanging from the pipes above his head.

He shakes his head, as if the motion can derail the bleakness of his thoughts.

He’s going to get out of this – Neal will find James, he’ll get the man to turn himself in. Peter will be there to testify that James fired in self-defense, that he didn’t intend to kill Pratt. But even as he runs through the scenario in his head, he can hear how the prosecution will spin it. He was conspiring with James to get the evidence box, to smear the Senator, and when there was nothing in the box, James shot the man in anger and Peter was covering for him. 

Claire, the AUSA, isn’t happy how this case is being handled, but she can’t do anything at the moment. Her boss is ambitious and likes the headlines and tells her to be aggressive. Even so, she’s amenable to a reasonable bail request, but the judge decides that the crime was so heinous that Peter needs to be locked away. He is also, apparently, a flight risk (given his jaunt off the reservation to retrieve Neal), and his repeated association with known felons (also Neal, and now James) makes it impossible to grant bail.

And besides, won’t the U.S. Attorney’s office be pushing for the death penalty?

Peter can still hear the gasps from the gallery: El’s, Neal’s, his team’s. Peter supposes that the judge is – or now, more accurately, _was_ – in Pratt’s pocket and he’s pissed off at losing a patron. He should remember to tell his attorney that. 

It’s an interesting conundrum. The law says he is innocent until proven guilty, but he’s being treated as if his guilt has already been proven beyond a reasonable doubt. 

The prison isn’t a quiet place, even at night after lockdown. There are the steady footfalls of the guards as they make their rounds. The pipes buried in the walls and floors are noisy. And there’s the ever-present hum and whine of human misery.

No, Peter doesn’t sleep. How can he?

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Agent Calloway.” Neal doesn’t bother to knock on her office door. She looks way too comfortable, way too smug.

“Mr. Caffrey – good of you to show up. I sent you a message requiring your presence four hours ago. This is the FBI, not some cushy gig where you can come and go as you please. Whatever arrangement you had with Peter Burke is over. You’ll work with me, and I suggest that if you don’t want me to summon the Marshals to take you back to prison, you respond a little more promptly.” 

He even hates the sound of her voice – magnolias and treachery. “Actually, that’s exactly what I want you to do. I’m going to make things easy for you. My contract with the Bureau has a withdrawal clause that lets me terminate my deal at any time.”

“You _want_ to go back to prison?” Calloway’s incredulous.

Neal swallows against his nausea – there’s a life at stake and he has to execute this con perfectly. “No, but I won’t work for you.”

“Hmmm.” She gives him a look. “But I like the idea of the having you work for me. You’re smart. You know how to play both sides of the system. I think we’ll be a very effective team, you and me.” She leans back in her chair, smug.

Neal’s comeback is quick, “I’d sooner work for Kimberly Rice than for you.”

“Ah, yes – Agent Rice. I know all about your work with her. She set you up with a sociopathic kidnapper who wanted to kill you. I admire that kind of ambition.”

“I’m not surprised. But I’m not going to work for you. I’m going to go back to Sing-Sing to serve out the rest of my term.”

“I don’t think so, Caffrey.”

“It’s too late. I’ve already contacted the Marshals.”

Calloway picks up the phone; it’s clear she’s going to get his decision countermanded – or try to. He listens as she presents her case; it’s obvious that she never expected this play. But she does know how to negotiate and compromise, despite the rising aggravation in her voice. Just like he hoped.

“Okay – I can’t stop you from taking him back into custody, but you’re not taking him to Sing-Sing. I want a Morrissey Hearing for him, and I want him local. You know what, put Caffrey in with Burke at Metropolitan Correctional. Maybe he can talk some sense into him.”

She hangs up the phone and looks at him like he’s crazy. Maybe he is, but that won’t stop him.

“If you change your mind, if you want to come and work for me – just say the word. No need to keep your wagon hitched to a falling star.”

Neal doesn’t smile. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t give away a single emotion. He’s just pulled off his greatest con ever and his face is a blank. He’ll celebrate when Peter is freed and his name is cleared. 

And maybe he’ll celebrate again when they escort his father to the electric chair.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Word gets out pretty quickly that there’s a Fed in the pen (not that the Metropolitan Correctional Facility is a penitentiary, but it’s certainly more of a prison than a jail). Peter knows he’s got to watch his back, even as he’s escorted by two guards into the prison showers.

He can’t help but think about Neal and how he coped when he was sent to prison. Peter knows that while Neal had wit and charm and used those assets to their fullest potential when he was in Sing-Sing, he also had to have had outside help. Peter has long suspected that Moz arranged for payoffs and protection. Because wit and charm only get you so far when faced with convicts working on life sentences and nothing to lose.

Right now, Peter wishes he had a Moz of his own. The guards have given him some “privacy” but that’s probably code that a payoff’s been made from the right people (or the wrong people, when you think about it). Two men, then a third, emerge from the steam – he recognizes one of them. 

It’s Robert MacLeish, once known to the glittering throngs on Cape Verde as Henry Dobbs. Peter’s surprised and not surprised by this encounter. He’s always known that MacLeish was here, pending his trial on dozens of major financial felonies, but he didn’t expect to encounter him quite so soon. 

“I couldn’t believe it when I heard you were here. How the high and mighty Peter Burke has fallen.”

Now Peter’s surprised. It was Collins who took MacLeish into custody. They had little contact once the jet left Praia.

“I’ve spent my time learning about the man who brought me down – it wasn’t James Maine, or whatever his name is – and it wasn’t that putz Kyle Collins. It was you, the White Collar division’s golden boy. The agent with the highest closure rate in the Bureau. The one who’s so fucking good that when he goes against direct orders to retrieve his CI, he still manages to bag one of the FBI’s Most Wanted.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be.”

“I’ve been here less than twelve hours; the prison grapevine’s way too efficient,” Peter replies. He wonders if he’s going to make it out of this alive.

“It’s better than Facebook.” MacLeish gestures to his two thugs and they grab his arms, or try to. There’s no way that Peter’s going down without a fight. He gets his punches in and takes a few, too. 

Maybe the guards do have a conscience after all, because someone pulls the thug off of Peter and shoves him against the tile. MacLeish, of course, disappears like he never was.

At least no one kicked him. He’ll be okay. He touches his face – his cheek’s already swollen and he can taste blood. 

El’s going to be so pissed when she sees him.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Diana watches the interaction between Calloway and Neal. Neal’s up to something, he’s got a plan in the works and he’s playing Calloway like a Stradivarius. She knows Neal, she knows his body language, how he leans in _just so_ , how he smiles and tilts his head and convinces you that you really want to do exactly what he wants you to do.

She also knows when Neal’s running on fumes, when he’s using everything he’s got and there are no reserves left. That’s when Caffrey’s the most dangerous. To himself and to those around him. Whatever con he’s running on Calloway, it’s make or break time and it’s a good thing that their erstwhile SAIC doesn’t know Neal all that well. Or she’d see right through him.

There’s a phone conversation and Neal turns his back on Calloway. He’s looking down at the bullpen, but Diana can’t catch his gaze. But whatever rig he’s running must have paid off. Neal’s posture relaxes just a bit and he’s all smiles when he turns around. A few moments later, he leaves her office and comes downstairs.

“Any word on Bennett?”

Diana thinks it’s interesting that Neal doesn’t call the man by any other name. She tells him, “No. But we do have an APB out at Penn Station, the Port Authority and the airports. Do you have ideas where he might go?”

Neal gives her an address in New Jersey. “I don’t think he’d head back there, but it’s one of Mozzie’s safe houses – it’s where we stashed him.” As if he were a crate full of stolen treasure.

“We’ll take a look. There’s nothing he’s ever said to you about places in New York that he liked?”

“No – he didn’t talk much about himself; he only told me what I wanted to hear.” 

Diana understands the bitterness.

There’s a commotion at the front door. Three men and a woman in navy windbreakers emblazoned with “U.S. Marshal” are muscling their way into the office. Their eyes scan the room, zeroing in on Neal.

“Caffrey?”

He gives them a wave. “I’ve been here, waiting patiently for you to show up.”

Diana watches, appalled, as they cuff him. She tries to intervene, but Neal shrugs her off. “Someone’s got to watch Peter’s back in there.”

Neal gives the office one last look – there’s no fear in his eyes. No regret either. Just resignation. When he looks up at Calloway, standing on the balcony, Diana sees that resignation turn into something else – triumph. _This_ was the con Neal was running on Calloway.

She wants to cheer and she wants to stop him from doing this. She does neither, just stands there like an honor guard as the Marshals escort Neal away.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“We’ve filed the motion for reconsideration.”

“I can hear a huge ‘but’ hanging off of that, Claude.” Peter looks his attorney in the eye and the man actually flinches.

“Arthur Danforth owes his seat on the Federal bench to Terrance Pratt.”

Ah, no need to tell Claude to look for a connection between the judge and the dead senator. “Can’t you push for recusal?”

Claude fiddles with his glasses. “Unfortunately, it’s not that sort of connection. Pratt was on the Senate Judiciary Committee and pushed through Danforth’s confirmation. There are dozens of judges in the country that could say the same thing. I can argue it, but without some other personal tie, it will be hard to prove any sort of prejudice. And being accused of Federal murder is generally good grounds to deny bail, regardless.”

“Yeah.” Peter tries not to feel dejected, but it’s hard.

“What happened to you?” Claude gestures at his face.

Peter doesn’t bother to lie. “A close encounter with a former member of the FBI’s Most Wanted. The man holds a grudge.”

“Well, that may work in your favor. If your life’s at risk because of an arrest you once made.”

“It wasn’t my arrest.” He tells Claude all about what happened on Cape Verde, that while he was the one who figured out the real identity of Henry Dobbs, he wasn’t the agent who arrested him. In fact, his name doesn’t appear anywhere on the record.

“And yet the man still knows you’re the one responsible?” Claude isn’t so optimistic anymore, without the direct connection between MacLeish and Peter. “Then it’s likely that you’ll either get put into solitary or transferred. Neither option is good.”

Peter knows what happens to prisoners in solitary – even those who are there for their own safety. It takes as little as ten days for personality to start to degrade, for mental health problems to emerge. “Let’s hold off. MacLeish isn’t known for being violent.” The black on his face gives lie to that statement and before Claude can question him further, Peter changes the subject. “Have you spoken with Neal?”

Claude hems and haws before telling Peter, “We had a formal interview with him yesterday, and I’m hoping that Neal’s affidavit that his father confessed to shooting Pratt will give enough weight to the motion.” Claude sounds worried.

“What’s the problem?” 

“I tried to get a hold of Mr. Caffrey this morning. He didn’t answer his cell phone or respond to any of my texts. I sent a messenger over to his apartment, and the housekeeper told him that Mr. Caffrey was gone. He said that he’d be gone for a while.”

Peter’s blood goes cold. Neal wouldn’t run – not now, not with so much at stake. “Did you try the office?”

“Yes. I spoke with an Agent Watson – do you know her?”

“Yeah – she came into the unit with Calloway.”

“Well –” Claude rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but the Marshals came to collect Caffrey a few hours ago. They’re taking him back to prison.”

Peter can’t believe what he’s just heard. “Back to prison?”

“Yeah – apparently Calloway called the Marshals and told them to come pick him up. Sorry. I know what Caffrey means to you.”

Peter tries to breathe through the panic. He can’t help Neal if he’s stuck in here, and Diana and Clinton can only do so much. They are facing their own problems from helping him and Neal. He runs through a list of options; it’s a short one. “Call Reese Hughes – he’s still got juice and he knows the system.” He mentally crosses his fingers and hopes his friend can help him one more time.

Claude gets up. “I’m going to do my best, but Peter – “

He acknowledges the compassion in the older man’s eyes. “I know – be prepared for the worst.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal tries not to panic. It’s not as if this is the first time he’s gone back inside. It’s just the first time that Peter’s not going to be able to get him out. And it’s not like he’s going to have escape plans that he can execute – no convenient bakery awning to catch him as he falls. He’s going in to protect Peter, to watch his back. Guards are corrupt and there are always knives in the darkness.

He worries about all the criminals they’ve caught – the really dangerous ones – the ones out for Peter’s blood. At least Wilkes is in Pennsylvania and Keller’s been shipped off to the Supermax in Florence, Colorado. Neal curses himself for not checking; he doesn’t like going in blind.

He worries, too, about the prisoners who’d think that bagging a Federal agent would be worth the trouble. Theoretically, that shouldn’t be such a risk since Metropolitan Correctional is primarily a holding facility for defendants waiting for trial, but there are long-term prisoners here.

In the end, though, Neal’s here because Peter doesn’t know how to survive on the wrong side of a prison cell. He doesn’t know how not to look people in the eye, how not to call attention to yourself just by the way you stand, how you pitch your voice, how you carry your meal tray. For everything that Peter’s done for him, this is the one thing that Neal can do for Peter.

The Marshals escort him through processing, he’s fingerprinted and photographed and handed an all-too-familiar set of orange clothing. They stand there as he’s strip-searched, and Neal tries not to care as the guard pries open his ass-cheeks and flashes a light on his hole, when he tugs at his dick and check under his balls. There’s nothing the least bit salacious about the process. The weary prison guard wears latex gloves and smells like breakfast burritos. The man finishes his inspection; he doesn’t say anything until he tells Neal that he can get dressed.

Neal spares a thought for the suit that he carefully folds and places in a bag. Hopefully it will be returned to him soon.

It’s not all bad, though. There’s a welcome and familiar face waiting for him as he comes out of the processing room.

Clinton flashes his badge and the Marshals step back a few feet. “Caffrey – Diana told me what happened, what you did. You okay?”

He nods. “You understand why I’m here.” Neal realizes that he sounds like he’s begging. “You and Diana will find James, you’ll bring him in. I’ve got to make sure that Peter stays alive until you do.”

“Caffrey –” Clinton says his name, but there’s no exasperation there. Just a little grief. “If you need us – you get in touch. We’ll be here as soon as you call.”

Neal knows that, but he also knows the limits of Federal badges, and he knows that Clinton’s and Diana’s hold on theirs is tenuous. “Talk to Moz – he’s working on stuff.” He can’t say more than that, not here.

Jones looks like he wants to cry, like he wants to give him a hug. His eyes keep in contact with Neal’s until the door slams shut.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter paces his cell – four steps to the wall, four steps to the door – over and over again. The agitation is suffocating, it burns across his skin. Neal’s on his way back to Sing-Sing and there’s nothing he can do about it.

He can remember every moment with Neal – from the first. They play in quick succession, moments of triumph and tragedy – moments of such perfect companionship that he wants to tear apart this cell and grow wings. The need to get to Neal, to keep him safe, to keep him at his side is a whip lashing at him. He can’t relax, he can’t think about himself, he can’t do anything but worry.

A nightstick bangs against his cell door and Peter stops his pacing. The guard orders him to assume the position. _What position?_

“Hands against the wall, feet spread.”

The guards don’t care that he’s a Federal agent. They should, but they don’t. Peter complies – it’s not like he has a choice.

“You’ve got a cellmate.”

_Shit._ There are two bunks here, but he’s supposed to be under special watch. Having another person in this cell is going to complicate things.

Except that person is Neal. Who complicates things, regardless.

Peter doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry – all that worrying for nothing. No, not for nothing, because this is prison and Neal’s just as vulnerable as he is. Fear returns and his joy at the sight of Neal evaporates. There’s anger, too. Calloway is wasting no time in decimating his organization. He wonders how long it will be before Jones and Diana are transferred out.

The guard pushes Neal into the cell, and he stumbles. Neal doesn’t meet his eyes; he doesn’t give him a jaunty wave and that familiar smile. He looks shaken, afraid. 

The door slams shut and they both flinch.

Now that they’re alone, the pretense falls away. Neal lifts his chin and finally looks him in the eye, his expression challenging.

“What have you done?” Then Peter realizes what happened. “Are you crazy? Why in the world did you get her to send you back to prison?” 

Neal reaches out to touch his face. Peter inhales sharply as the fingers softly brush the bruise left from last night’s encounter. “It’s what I needed to do. It’s nothing less than what you’ve done for me.”

Peter shivers at the touch of Neal’s hand. He wants to turn his face into that warm, hard palm. He tells himself that it’s just gratitude, not something more. And for a heartbeat, he lets himself believe that. But gratitude quickly gives way to anger. He’s worked tirelessly to keep Neal out of jail – to keep him safe. And the man just turns his back on that.

It’s a bit irrational, but the whole situation is irrational. He pulls away and turns his back on Neal. 

The anger won’t last; it never does.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal understands Peter’s anger. In their partnership, it’s always been Peter protecting him. The one other time that he tried to protect Peter – at Elizabeth’s insistence – it was a miserable failure. Which is why they are both in a prison cell.

If Neal had hopes that Peter would greet him with open arms, he also knows that for what he needs to do, Peter’s anger is better. 

He has a reprieve the first night. No one comes for him, but he still doesn’t sleep. Prison isn’t quiet. He’s forgotten about the echoes of misery – past and present – that can keep a man awake. He’s forgotten about the incessant sound of a nightstick tap-tap-tapping against a guard’s belt or the wall. 

Neal’s forgotten about the noisy darkness, of loneliness beaten out in the rhythmic pumping of fists, muffled into graying pillows and worn-out mattresses.

It’s best that these things are forgotten, because they are far too easy to remember.

Peter gives him angry looks and the silent treatment through the day, although he makes no move to separate himself from Neal. They aren’t in AdSeg so they get to take their meals with the rest of the prisoners, which Neal thinks is a supremely bad idea. When they are on line for breakfast, Peter stands straight and tall, making himself a target. Neal slouches. Before Neal can tell him to change his posture, Peter understands and the impossible begins to happen – he becomes almost invisible.

There is a moment when the past catches up to them. Neal comes face to face with Henry Dobbs – wait, Robert MacLeish – and the meeting between the two of them is both humorous and fraught. Neal smirks and looks at MacLeish in his own orange jumpsuit. He wants to say something about this being a far cry from his mansion on Praia, except for that cell in the basement. But he keeps his mouth shut. MacLeish has two men – big guys – hovering at his shoulder, and one of them, with a black eye to match Peter’s, is licking his lips. Neal isn’t sure if he wants to fight or fuck him.

MacLeish doesn’t recognize him at first – maybe it’s the missing facial hair or the prison uniform instead of a custom tailored linen suit – but then he does and his eyes widen. They go from him to Peter and back to him. 

Neal knows he should really keep quiet, but now he can’t. He leans in, and says in the most vicious whisper he can manage, “If you hadn’t handed me over to Collins, you stupid fuck, I would have left Cape Verde ignorant of your real identity. Just think, if you hadn’t betrayed our bargain, you’d still be sitting in your office, smoking cigars, making model ships and naming them after your mistresses and no one would have ever known who you really were.”

The other man looks like he wants to rip his head off, and his thugs take a step forward. Neal knows that in this crowded prison cafeteria, it’s his tongue and not his fists that will keep him safe at this moment. He doesn’t flinch when the first man grabs him. From the corner of his eye, he can see the guards move in.

Neal doesn’t bother to whisper this time, he wants everyone to hear what MacLeish is. “You might want to rethink your terms with that guy – I paid him twenty-five grand for protection and he turned me over to the Feds the first chance he got. He’ll sell you out, too, if he thinks it’ll benefit him.” This is why he confronts MacLeish instead of ignoring him. He needs to establish himself as a badass, someone you don’t fuck with. Words are his knives and his bullets. He knows how to use them.

Neal can feel the tension radiate off of Peter, it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. But Peter knows better than to interfere. This is not some suburban playground. You have to stake your claim early and show everyone just how big and brassy your balls are.

The man lets go of him and gives MacLeish a dirty look. He and his partner stalk off, leaving them alone in a room full of inmates – men with everything and nothing to lose. MacLeish finally moves on. He gives Peter a bad look and one for Neal that promises retribution. 

They take their trays and sit down. Neal ignores the murmurs around them. The man next to Peter picks up his tray and leaves, muttering that he’s not sitting next to some goddamn fucking Fed.

Peter’s still angry – at him for being here, at what just happened. But Neal has no regrets. Peter’s going to stay safe and alive and unharmed, no matter what. No matter the cost. He’ll endure Peter’s anger, the silent treatment; it’s the least of his problems right now.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Mozzie knows that his usual paranoid routine – umbrella tapping, bird calls, newspapers turned to specific pages – won’t work with the Old Gray Suit. If Moz is a dedicated amateur in the world of professional paranoia, Reese Hughes is a grand master. Neal might characterize the Old Gray Suit as a scary version of Grumpy Grandpa, but Neal doesn’t have the contacts that he has. He doesn’t know who the man _really_ is, he doesn’t know that Hughes didn’t really retire that first time, that he spent the intervening years as a Section Chief for the NSA.

So Moz will meet with Reese Hughes at the old man’s pleasure. Fortunately, the old man likes burgers and shakes and Moz is willing to risk the consequences of a massive lactose intake when it’s Neal’s life on the line.

Moz snags a table and waits while Hughes stands on line. The old man finally arrives and puts two shakes – one strawberry, one chocolate – and a bag with a couple of extra-greasy cheeseburgers on the table. He pulls a burger out of the bag and tells him to eat up.

Moz grabs the strawberry one, shoves a straw into it and sucks. It’s so damn good he nearly faints. The old man unwraps his own burger and consumes it neatly, like an experienced predator. Moz waits for his stomach to rebel, but nothing happens and he takes a bite of his cheeseburger. It’s almost as good as the shake.

Finally the food is consumed, their shakes are reduced to melted dregs and Moz is in a bizarre state, hovering between a food coma and near-fatal anxiety.

“You didn’t get this from me.” Hughes slips something – probably a flash drive – under the pile of spent napkins. 

Moz will take the usual precautions before accessing the data. “What about the other thing? You know what I need.”

Hughes smiles and pushes the greasy bag towards him. “I got you a few extra burgers. You might get hungry on your way to see Neal.” 

The old man leaves without another word.

Moz shivers. 

But he takes a deep breath. This is going to happen. He’s going to have to do this. No, _Neal_ is going to have to do this.

It’s not the milk shake that’s making him sick.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Elizabeth waits for Peter in a cold and ugly room. On the inch-thick Lexan divider, the linoleum covered tables and the worn-out chairs, there’s subtle graffiti scratched into the surface, spelling out pain and anger and confusion. She understands these emotions.

It’s hard to breathe in this room, she feels like the walls are closing in, like she’ll never be able to leave. Or that this will be her life – days marked by hours spent waiting in rooms like this for a brief – too brief – moment with her husband. Talking but not talking, reaching out but not touching, hiding all the pain, all the fear. 

A door opens on the other side and it’s her husband. It’s the first time she’s seen him since the bailiff put the cuffs on and led him away. She’s talked to Claude, to Diana, and to Clinton. They’ve all assured her that Peter will be fine, he’ll be out soon, and that this is all a terrible mistake.

Elizabeth won’t talk to Neal. She won’t spare a word or a thought for the man who has taken her husband away from her. Moz tiptoes quietly around her. She acknowledges his friendship, but she knows that he’s there to bridge the gap between her anger and Neal’s guilt.

It’s not a bridge she ever plans to cross.

Peter sits down and picks up the phone. She does the same.

“Hi, hon.”

Those two words carry a wealth of meaning, and El responds in kind. “Hi, hon.” Then she looks at Peter, she sees the bruises and the smile on her face freezes. 

“I’m fine – you should see the other guy.” Peter does sound okay. And she knows how he feels about lying to each other, even for the best of reasons. But she’s angry and that bruise just stokes her rage.

“Really? You’re really fine? You’ve been arrested for the murder of a U.S. Senator, the judge wants the Government to push for the death penalty, you’ve lost your badge _again_ and all you can say is ‘I’m fine’? That’s bullshit. You aren’t fine, and you know it.”

Elizabeth puts down the phone and buries her face in her hands. Peter may say he’s fine, he may even believe it, but she isn’t. It’s too much. Right now, it’s just too much to even pretend.

“El? Hon? Talk to me, please?” She hears his voice, quiet and steady, through the handset. It’s a lifeline that she grasps. 

“I’m – I’m sorry.”

Peter rests a hand against the divider; she reaches out and mirrors the gesture. “I’m sorry, too – sorry that you have to go through this.”

He’s a saint, her husband. He’s lost everything and he’s worried about her. She feels mean and petty and small.

“We’ll get through this, please trust me.”

“I do, it just hurts.”

“I know, hon. I know. Maybe you shouldn’t come back here.”

Elizabeth almost wants to take that out. It would be so easy. “No – I’m your wife.” That answers everything. “I love you.”

They talk for a while, trying to keep the tone light. “Satchmo got frisky with Lenny, the Pedersons’ Golden Doodle. They were appalled, but Lenny seemed to enjoy it.”

Peter laughs, the sound is pure joy. “Well, with a breed name like that, what can you expect?”

El chuckles. The conversation goes like that for a bit. She tells him about her new clients, a Brazilian bridezilla and her monster-in-law to-be. The guard signals ‘five minutes’ and El knows that she has to say one more thing, if just to avoid lying.

“Before you even ask, I haven’t heard from Neal. I think he knows that I’m furious at him. And don’t you dare tell me not to be. If it wasn’t for him, you wouldn’t be here.”

Peter’s expression is strange – resignation, pride and sadness. “You won’t hear from Neal, at least not until I get out of here.”

“You’ve told him to stay away? Good.”

“No, El. Not good.” Peter closes his eyes, as if what he’s about to tell her is hurting him. And her rage against Neal flares again. His answer, though, is unexpected and shocking. “Neal’s here. He’s back in prison. He’s my cellmate.”

“What?” 

“He orchestrated something with Calloway, and he got her to send him here.” Peter laughs again. This time the sound is bitter. “He tells me he did it so he’ll be able to watch my back, to protect me. Neal Caffrey trying to protect _me_. How ridiculous is that?”

Elizabeth is shaken. This was the last thing she expected. She’s always understood that Neal’s feelings for Peter were profound. It was why she’s accepted him in their lives and his place in Peter’s heart. It’s why she can go to him when Peter’s in trouble. It’s been that way since the start. But this is beyond any expectations. She knows just how much Neal dreaded returning to prison, how he would have done anything to avoid it.

She’s grateful to Neal, and gratitude appeases her anger. She doesn’t let it show, though. “He did the right thing – for the right reason. Maybe for the first time in his life.” Her tone is steely and she hopes Peter doesn’t contradict her. She’s not prepared to lie to Peter right now. She’s too vulnerable. After she gets home, she will talk to Moz. They can formulate a plan to get Peter and Neal out of here.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Moz, though, has equally pressing concerns and he needs to talk to Neal, right now. He’s pacing around the attorney-client conference room like a hamster on a wheel. Finally, Neal’s escorted in.

“You’re insane.” Moz repeats the last words he said to Neal before he went to confront Calloway.

Neal shrugs. “I have no choice. Peter’s not equipped to ride this out alone.”

“I know, but still…” Moz sighs. He knows that Neal would risk anything for the Suit – just as he’d risk anything for him. That is the measure of this man, the quality of Neal Caffrey that makes him risk his own life and limb and sanity on far too many occasions.

“So, other than the obvious – what’s got you so wound up?” 

“You’re not going to believe who’s here.” Moz is actually relishing the reveal, but he ends up disappointed. Neal already knows.

“MacLeish – or more accurately – our old friend, Henry Dobbs. We’ve already said our hellos, and I have to say, it wasn’t like old home week.”

“Shit.” Moz had hoped Neal hadn’t encountered MacLeish yet.

“Yeah.” Neal raises his eyebrows and gives him a nod. But he doesn’t know exactly how bad it is.

“You should know that he’s figured out that it was Peter who’s responsible for his unmasking back on Cape Verde.”

“I think he’s already tried to go after Peter. He’s sporting a couple of bruises, and so is his muscle. But they might not be his muscle any longer, considering how they took the news that MacLeish doesn’t honor his commitments.” 

The news sends a chill through Moz. “You’ve been poking the tiger with a stick, Neal. Not smart.”

“I needed to draw a line, Moz. MacLeish has to know who he’s dealing with.”

“Well, considering how deep MacLeish’s pockets are – he’s really not going to care much about that line.”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s not just the inmates here that MacLeish can pay off. It’s the guards, too.”

“We can pay more, right?” Neal asks.

“Like that’s not a scenario that I haven’t already contemplated. You should know that he’s promised a six-figure bounty to the head guard for Peter. And now that he knows you’re here, you’re probably worth just as much.”

“Anyway we can prove that?” There’s a level of desperation in Neal’s question that Moz had anticipated.

“What are you thinking?” The question was superfluous; Moz already knows where Neal’s thoughts are heading.

“If we can show that Peter’s in critical danger – even from the guards – they’ll have to let him out on bail.”

“Or put him in solitary under military watch.” Moz can’t help but supply the worst case scenario. 

Neal just looks at him, all floppy hair and puppy dog eyes. Moz knows that he’s too soft a touch. Besides, he’s prepared for this. “You’re going to have to get access to the guard’s personal cell phone. MacLeish transferred a down payment to a numbered account – we’re going to need get that confirmation.”

“That’s not going to be easy. Guards can’t carry personal cell phones during their shift. And how the hell am I going to get a cloner in here?”

“I’m already on that. Our friend, on the other side of the door, will work with us.”

“He’s trustworthy?”

“I know him, and once the guy’s bought, he stays bought. Those types are few and far between. Besides, he’s got incentive. Around here, it’s sort of like that episode of Star Trek – the one with the parallel universes – if his boss gets taken out, he’s going to be promoted.”

Neal sighs and closes his eyes. Moz knows he’s preparing himself for what needs to be done, no matter how unpleasant.

“How safe is Peter right now? In his cell, alone?”

“When they try for him, they’ll make it look like it was another inmate or even an accident. They won’t want anything coming back to them – not MacLeish, not the head guard.”

“So – tonight?”

“Yeah – be ready for tonight.” Moz slides a strip of foil-wrapped packets across the table; Neal tucks them into his pocket. 

They discuss other, less fraught things, like locating James Bennett and making him talk until he begs for mercy. Moz thinks about doing it the Detroit Way – he’ll start with the man’s thumbs. But he doesn’t tell Neal that. 

Neal gets that faraway look, the one that had become all too familiar in the days after Kate’s death. “I used to wonder – after Ellen told me that my father was dirty – if he just was caught up in circumstance or if he was truly evil. There was a short space of time when I truly regretted what I had become – when I thought that James was simply weak and had spent thirty years trying to make things right.”

“Neal …” Moz can’t really find the words.

“You know, Moz – you’re better off not knowing your folks. You can make them whatever you want them to be. You’ll never be disappointed by them.” Neal shakes his head, as if to dispel the memories. “Enough – we’ve got work to do.” 

Moz goes to the door and signals for the guard. The man looks from him to Neal and back to him again and asks, “Your guy knows what he’s got to do – how this has to go down?”

“Yeah.” He gives the cloning device to the man and hopes that the Old Gray Suit doesn’t have kittens when he discovers that classified tech was in the hands of a low-level prison guard. “Neal’s going to need a five minute window – can you manage that?”

“Five minutes, can’t guarantee more than that. What about my money?”

Moz takes comfort in the venality of human nature. He hands the guard a thick envelope. “That’s half, the rest tomorrow. But only if Caffrey and Burke are in the same condition they are now – unharmed and breathing.”

The guard runs a thumb over the thick sheaf of bills. “Understood.” 

He gestures to Neal, who turns to Moz before leaving. “Thanks.” 

“Please, Neal – don’t.” Moz is still more than a little sick at the thought of what Neal’s got to do tonight. His gratitude only makes it worse.

Neal gives him that grin, the one that sucked him in so many years ago. “There’s a ‘90 Brunello hidden behind the winter coats in my closet. Help yourself.”

He thinks that he should display some outrage that Neal would secret such a spectacular vintage from him, but he can’t find it in himself to even fake it. “We’ll open it when you get out of here, okay?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Once, when they were both a little drunk, both a little vulnerable, he asked Neal what was the worst thing about prison. Neal had made some off-hand and all too glib comment about the quality of the bedding and the lack of room service at Sing-Sing. Peter wouldn’t accept the deflection and when he pressed, something terrible passed across Neal’s face. Seeing that pain, he would have let the question go, but Neal decided to give him a serious answer.

“Boredom. Doing the same thing day after day, for all the endless days. That’s my idea of hell on earth, and _I never want to go back._ “

Peter remembers how Neal’s hand shook as he took a sip of wine, how he didn’t – wouldn’t – meet his eyes. He understood that boredom was only one of the torments of a prisoner in a cell, but at the time, he was sure that it wasn’t the worst.

Now, however; he isn’t so sure. Neal’s meeting with his attorney (Moz, he strongly suspects and actually hopes) and Peter is ready to climb the walls. It’s not nerves – he doesn’t think that Neal’s in any danger at the moment – it’s the lack of external stimulation. He suddenly wishes he took El up on the offer to go to yoga classes. Maybe he could find some inner peace that way.

Peter folds himself into what he hopes is an approximation of a lotus position, he rests his hands on his knees like he’s seen El do dozens of times and he takes a deep breath. He tries to find inner peace, but all he encounters is the noise of a self in turmoil. _Will I get out of here? Will Bennett turn up and confess? Will I be able to protect Neal?_

The questions roll over in his unquiet mind. There are no answers. His thighs and knees and calves begin to ache from the unfamiliar position. He’s conscious of his own slightly rancid body odor, the musty smell from the bedding, the underlying stench of sewage and desperation.

The clang of a key against metal breaks what little concentration Peter’s been able to achieve. It’s been three days and he knows the drill. He gets up and moves to the far end of the cell. It’s Neal, wearing his conman’s grin, a look of satisfaction; Peter doesn’t take any hope from that, especially if he’s been meeting with Moz. He’s also carrying himself with an odd sort of tension, as if he’s about to spring into action.

The door shuts, sealing them off from the world – such as it is – and Neal visibly relaxes. 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah.”

Both men ask and answer the question simultaneously and they laugh. The anger that Peter’s been carrying melts away. He rests his hands on Neal’s shoulders and pulls him close. 

“You shouldn’t have done this, Neal. I can take care of myself.”

Neal sighs and shakes his head. “Peter – you’re a Fed in prison. You have no one to watch your back. And even if you’re not in GenPop, you’re still at risk.”

“And you’re the one to protect me?” Peter still finds the idea ludicrous.

“I spent four years in a place a lot worse than this and survived.”

Again, Peter wonders what Neal did, what bargains he made, how he kept them. Back in the beginning, Neal was like a butterfly loose from its chrysalis, focused on finding the good life (and Kate), and Peter didn’t think about the price he had paid for his safety in prison. He saw the letters in Neal’s DOC file – all those fellow convicts thanking him for his help – so he had conveniently let himself believe that Neal avoided the dark side of prison life.

Now, he regrets that willful blindness.

“How is El doing?” Neal’s flopped onto his bunk. 

Peter sits down next to him, scoops up his feet and drapes them across his lap. “She’s holding up.”

“I hope she’ll forgive me someday.” 

“There’s nothing to forgive, Neal. This was my call, from the beginning.” He finds himself petting Neal’s ankle, the one now bare of the tracker. It’s interesting how Neal stretches his leg, moving a little closer.

“I’ve brought nothing but chaos into your life.”

“Like I told you a few days ago, I would do it all over again. Kate, Fowler, Adler, the U-boat treasure, I regret nothing.”

Neal doesn’t want to let go of it. “Keller – what he did. You have to regret that?”

“Okay – yeah. I wouldn’t want anyone to take my wife again.”

“And Kramer?”

Peter has to laugh. “I got an interesting vacation out of it. Racked up a whole lot of frequent flyer miles going to Africa. And six weeks in the tropics didn’t exactly hurt you either.”

“Collins shot me.”

“Oh, yeah. Forgot about that.” Peter runs his hand down Neal’s thigh. He can feel the slight indentation from the bullet scar.

Neal twitches at the contact – the almost-caress – and plays what he probably thinks is his trump card. “What about Hughes? If I hadn’t – “

Peter cuts him off. “Neal, stop it. There’s nothing that you can say that will make me blame you for this. Remember what I told you that day?”

“What day?”

“After Elizabeth was taken and Moz had shown up. We had gone back to your apartment, to regroup. I told you that it wasn’t your fault – that Keller kidnapped Elizabeth, not you. Whatever actions preceded that, whatever you had done, you still weren’t responsible for Matthew Keller taking my wife.”

He can feel Neal tense at every mention of Keller’s name and has to wonder what they once were to each other. Well, they have time and not much else to do; he’ll get the story out of Neal, eventually.

Neal goes quiet, but Peter can tell he’s thinking. “Whatever you’re planning, stop.”

Neal’s eyebrows get lost in the stratosphere. “I’m not planning anything.”

“Until recently, you’ve had an excellent track record of not lying to my face. Don’t fall into bad habits now.”

“Peter – I have no plans to break you out of prison. I’m here to watch your back, make sure that nothing happens to you until you get out of here.”

He knows that there’s a loophole in that assertion big enough to swallow the Grand Canyon. It’s all part of their game, even here. Neal gives him just enough assurance so he can sleep at night, then goes and violates the spirit, if not the letter of their promise. Peter won’t sleep on this one, though – there’s too much at risk.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The hand on his ankle is a tighter shackle than the tracker could ever be. Through all the years, through their good times and their not so good times, Neal has always reacted to Peter’s touch. He might have told James that Peter is more of a father to him that he ever was, but never says that he ever sees Peter as a father figure.

It’s a finely cut distinction, one that he’ll never admit to anyone. Mozzie, though, probably knows exactly how he feels and has the rare good sense not to mention it. It would be like uncorking a bottle of Champagne. Once it’s out there, it’s never going back in.

Neal wonders if Peter even realizes what he’s doing, petting him like he’s Satchmo. He’s always loved how handsy Peter is with him, how he’s always touching and tugging and guiding him. It’s been that way since the beginning, and maybe he wouldn’t have developed these highly inappropriate feelings for Peter if he hadn’t been so touch-starved in the days and weeks after his release from prison.

Perhaps he’s like a baby bird, and the constant contact made Peter imprint on him. But that brings him back to parental relationships, which he’d really prefer to avoid.

The stroking continues, soft little pets that make Neal want to purr and stay like this forever. They don’t talk, but he can read what’s going on in Peter’s abstracted gaze. He’s worried (obviously).

“They’ll find Bennett – he won’t get far.” They hadn’t really discussed this. Neal wonders if he should tell Peter just how much of a liar and a conman his father is. Not now, not when Peter’s hands are on him and he’s relaxed for the first time since it happened.

“Except that the FBI has no reason to go after him – they believe that they already have Pratt’s shooter in prison.” The bleakness in Peter’s voice almost kills Neal.

“You don’t think that they wouldn’t want to bring him in for questioning – especially since he was seen at the Empire State Building, that he had taken the evidence box before Calloway’s team could get to it? Not even with the assault charge?”

Peter shrugs, not willing to concede the point. “It’s all my fault. This whole mess.”

“What?” 

“I was the one who encouraged you to look into your past. I’m the one responsible for all of it – Ellen’s death, Flynn’s, even Pratt’s. If I’d just let sleeping dogs lie.” Peter’s hand stills.

Neal sits up – he has to. He can’t have this conversation when he’s at such a physical disadvantage. Neal turns and sits next to Peter, shoulder to shoulder. “Didn’t you just tell me that this isn’t my fault – that I’m not responsible for other people’s actions? Do I have to tell you the same thing?”

Peter laughs. “I hate it when you’re right.”

He picks up Peter’s hand; it’s missing something – his wedding ring. Of course he wouldn’t be allowed to keep that while inside. “Trust me, Peter – you’ll be out of here soon.” 

Neal runs his thumb across the strip of white, untanned skin, his stroking much like Peter’s caresses. Peter doesn’t pull away, and Neal is a little surprised. There are lines in this relationship – Peter initiates contact, it’s his hand at the small of Neal’s back, at his arm, around his shoulder. But Neal has never forgotten the few moments when he was the one to reach out to Peter. It took months before he stopped waking (sometime hard and aching, sometime already wet and replete) from the memory of the moment he wrapped his arms around Peter and Peter held him close.

They sit together; the silence is companionable, easy, until Peter breaks it.

“You’re my goat, you know.”

Neal laughs, outraged but still amused. “What?”

“When I was a kid, I used to work in the stables at the local racetrack. Thoroughbreds are high strung creatures, and a good trainer knows that companion animals will keep a nervous horse from acting up. There was this one race horse, amazing on the track, but a demon in the stable if his friend wasn’t there for him.”

“Friend?”

“A nanny goat. Her name was Clytemnestra.”

Neal couldn’t restrain a startled bark of laughter. “Yes, of course a nanny goat would be named after one of the most notorious women in Greek mythology.”

“Anyway, Clytemnestra would keep the thoroughbred –”

“Whose name was Agamemnon?”

“No, Bob.” Peter looks at him and smiles, full of sweetness and innocence.

Neal doesn’t buy it. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. The horse was called “Bobs Your Uncle.”

“Okay – back to the story of Bob and his pet goat, Clytemnestra.”

“It’s really not that much of a story. Just that Bob would go stir crazy in his box or trailer without Clytemnestra.”

The story was amusing, but Neal can’t seem to find the point to it. “And I’m like that, how?”

“You’re keeping me from going crazy. I don’t know how you managed this for four years.”

Neal rests his head against Peter’s shoulder, taking liberties he probably shouldn’t. “It was hard when I first got to Sing-Sing. Like I’ve told you, the boredom was the worst. When I was here – waiting for trial, when I was on trial – it wasn’t so bad. I always figured I’d get off.”

“The jury was almost taken in by your good looks and charm.”

“Almost, but not quite.”

“Had you dead to rights on the bond forgery, they couldn’t overlook that. If you hadn’t been such an arrogant little shit that day, I’d never have been able to place you at the bank.”

For years, Neal had regretted that moment. Not anymore. “It was the best thing I ever did.” 

“Really?” Peter looks at him, his eyes soft, filled with wonder. “I’d never have caught you otherwise.”

Neal laughs. “The great Peter Burke admitting that it was my own stupid mistake that lead to my arrest? That it wasn’t your storied deductive powers?”

Peter wouldn’t be distracted. “If I hadn’t, you’d never have gone to prison.”

“I still don’t regret it. Prison was horrible, why do you think I’m here – you shouldn’t go through this alone.” 

“Neal …” His name is a prayer on Peter’s lips.

If ever there is a moment to tell Peter what is in his heart, this is it. But he has to let the moment pass. What he has to do tonight is too important, he can’t afford to be distracted by his own desires.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter hears the cell door open. He throws back the blankets and surges up, out of his bunk. If they are coming for him, he wants to be prepared. He’s not going to die on his back, defenseless.

But there’s no one there – the cell door is shut, there’s a guard stationed outside. It must have been a bad dream. 

Except that it isn’t. Neal’s bunk is empty.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The guard that Moz says is trustworthy comes to the cell a little after one AM. Neal watches Peter carefully, watches him sleep and dream. He listens to Peter murmur his wife’s name, and he longing breaks Neal’s heart. Peter may insist that this debacle isn’t his fault, but it is of his making.

He’s going to fix this.

The door opens on well-oiled hinges and he slips out into the corridor. There’s a guard on duty; Neal has to worry.

“He’s good – the Fed will be fine until morning.”

In other words, a payment’s been made. No guarantee what will happen after the shift changes, though. 

The trip to the head guard’s office is shorter than Neal expects – his frame of reference isn’t the vertical construction of a modern urban prison, but the ancient sprawl of Sing-Sing. The elevator takes them down two floors, into an administrative level. No one questions their passage. 

They reach their destination, and the guard pushes him into an unlocked office. “You have five minutes. And you’ll need this – “ He hands Neal a small electronic device – the cloner that Moz had passed to the guard earlier.

It’s more than a cloner, though. It’s a high speed wireless data backup unit that can capture all of the cellphone’s contents, regardless of make or model. Neal has to wonder where Moz got his hands on this. One of these was on display at the FBI conference he and Peter had spoken at last year. 

Neal looks for the all-important cell phone. He finds it on a credenza, plugged into a charger. He puts the phone on top of the cloner, presses the green button and prays that this works. It does – the progress bar zips along and Neal watches the clock, counting down the seconds. The device gives off a little _bing_ and flashes “complete” before going dark. Neal puts the device deep into his pocket, tucks the condoms Moz gave him into his breast pocket, sits down and waits.

He doesn’t have long.

The door slams open and Neal flinches at the noise. He gets to his feet, better now than if he has to be ordered. Eyes are towards the floor, hands loose and at his side. He’s nothing if not the picture of a submissive supplicant. This is how the game is played.

“Well, well, Neal Caffrey. I’m not surprised to see you in my house.”

Moz had never told him the name of the head guard, the one that MacLeish was paying off. But if he had, Neal wouldn’t have been surprised. Carter Anderson – once sergeant, now captain from the bars on his uniform – didn’t rise to the top of the heap by being a Boy Scout, despite his angelic good looks.

“Captain Anderson, good to see you again.” 

Carter grins, like a shark. “I’m touched, you remembered me.”

This is going to work in Neal’s favor. Carter had obvious weak points. Neal looks at him and licks his lips. The gesture is one of seduction, not nerves. “When I heard who was in charge, I had to see you.” He casts his eyes down again. “I was a little hurt that you hadn’t sent for me.”

Carter steps in, close – too close. “I figured you’d come to me. You know the rules. You ask, maybe I give – if you’re willing to pay.” His breath ruffles the curls at Neal’s temple, it smells like cinnamon chewing gum. 

“I don’t want to be a punk.” Neal knows better than to mention Peter. “What will it cost to keep me safe?”

“Maybe the question is, what are you willing to pay?” Carter’s coy as he steps back from Neal and sits behind his desk.

Neal sits, too. He stretches out as if none of this matters to him. He takes out the strip of condoms and tears off one, tossing it on the desk. No point in giving away the store in the first round.

Carter’s response is not surprising. “You really think that paltry offer is going to keep you safe? When some of your old friends heard you were back inside, they wanted to put in bids on who’d get your ass first.”

“Bull?” Neal names one of the worst of the guards. The man liked to bite.

“And Joey, too – he still goes like a rabbit.”

“That’s nice to know.” 

Carter gives a little huff of laughter. “You’re really something.”

“You can’t tell me that you want to share. You never did.”

“No, that’s true. But I didn’t get to the top of this shit pile by thinking with my dick. If giving you to Bull and Joey gets me something, you’re going to be their new plaything.”

Neal starts tap dancing. This isn’t going the way he expects. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

“Why not?”

“My stay here is temporary – I’ve got powerful friends now. You abuse me, your little kingdom will come crashing down on top of you.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Neal bluffs, hoping that Anderson isn’t plugged into the whole law enforcement network. “You can call Reese Hughes, head of the FBI’s White Collar division, here in New York.” He rattles off a cell phone number – it’s Hughes’ private one.

“If you’re jacked into the FBI, then why are you here in the first place?” Carter’s stare narrows. “You’re bunking with the Fed – you’re connected to him.”

_Shit._ “I hitched my wagon to the wrong star.” Neal borrows Calloway’s turn of phrase and mentally apologizes to Peter.

“That you did. The guy killed a U.S. Senator. _Allegedly_.”

“Wouldn’t know about that. He doesn’t talk much.”

Carter picks up the single wrapped condom that Neal had tossed on the desk. “Tell you what – we play this your way. You keep me sweet, I’ll make sure everyone knows it’s hands off. You piss me off, you’re going to spend the rest of your time in the hole, as the hole. Get my drift?”

“It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, Captain Anderson.” Neal stands and strips off the orange shirt, flexing his pecs as he folds it. He’s equally enticing as he takes off his pants, carefully folding them to keep the cloner from falling to the floor.

Carter’s clearly amused by Neal’s performance. And aroused. “Pity I don’t have more time.” He goes behind Neal, pushes him across the desk, kicks his feet apart and pries open his ass cheeks. “Nice, tight little hole. Yeah, I think I’ll keep you for myself.”

Neal hears the familiar rip-tear of the foil packet and Carter’s little grunt of pleasure as he rolls on the condom. Fingers press deep into his body, stretching, and Neal just lets his mind go. 

_This is for Peter, this is to keep Peter safe and alive._

That’s all that matters.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The cell is airless, Peter feels as if he’s suffocating. Time is irrelevant, but he counts the paces of the guards as they pass by. It could be an hour since he woke, it could be just a few minutes. He doesn’t know.

He pulls the single chair over to the door, there’s an opening in the solid steel and he stares through it, his world reduced to a five-by-eight slit. He can mostly see the floor and the opposite wall and a few feet on either side of the cell. The corridor is as brightly lit as if it were daytime.

Peter waits and watches. He wonders if prayer would do any good.

A gate opens and there are two sets of footfalls – a guard’s boots and the lighter sounds of the slip-on tennis shoes that prisoners are issued. The sounds get closer and stop. The access port is blocked by the guard’s navy blue uniform and Peter moves away from the door.

It opens, and Neal steps into the cell. The door slams shut.

His heart is pounding; the combination of fear and relief is nauseating. But Peter puts it aside and goes to Neal.

Except for his slightly mussed hair, there are no signs of physical trauma. Still, his partner looks like he’s aged a decade. Peter doesn’t know what to say, what to ask, and all the fear he harbored during the long wait returns when Neal’s gaze slides away from his. 

He opens his mouth to at least ask what happened, but Neal cuts him off. “You need to talk to your attorney tomorrow. He’ll have to get in touch with Mozzie.”

“Why?” But Peter’s not diverted from Neal’s extra-cellular forays. He’s just waiting for Neal to finish.

“There’s a hit out on you. Your attorney’s going to need to get the information that Moz will have.”

Peter doesn’t focus on the news that he’s marked for death, that’s almost irrelevant. “What do you mean, _will have_?”

“There are some things you’re better off not knowing, Peter. Consider this another case of plausible deniability.”

“Neal –” He reaches out, but Neal flinches away.

“Just – not now. Tomorrow, it will be all better tomorrow.”

There’s a hint of pain in Neal’s voice and his eyes beg Peter to hold off, to let it go until he’s ready. Peter wants to press and he wants to let it go. He wants to wrap his arms around Neal and make that pain go away. He finds that he can’t _not_ do that, and Neal doesn’t flinch away again.

But his hold is loose, because he’s not stupid, he’s not naïve. Tomorrow is time enough for recriminations. Peter gently pulls Neal down onto his bunk and positions them so his own back is to the cell door. The narrow bed isn’t comfortable for one man, let alone two, but for the rest of this night, Peter will protect Neal, with his body and his heart.

Neal doesn’t turn in his arms and he doesn’t pull away. He buries his face in Peter’s neck, his breathing shallow. Peter can feel Neal’s heart race, he can feel the shivers run through him. He silently curses the ties between them: the connection that sends him to prison because he believes in Neal, that makes Neal jeopardize his life, his health, his sanity to keep him safe.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal wakes. Not in a panicked rush, nor in a slow languor. He’s asleep one moment, and then he’s not, absolutely aware of every damn thing around him. This is the way he woke every day he was in prison, the way he woke every day in Cape Verde, in a state of fearful anticipation.

But this morning is different. He feels safe. 

There’s a warm, heavy mass draped over him, a heart beating under his ear. Peter’s there, his body blocking out the world.

Neal shifts, so he can look into Peter’s face, to memorize the image of this man in complete repose. But Peter isn’t sleeping. He is looking at Neal, concern in every line and crease, shining out of his eyes.

There’s no preamble, no meaningless morning exchange. Peter picks up right from where he left off last night.

“What you did – “

Neal still doesn’t – he _can’t_ talk about it. Not now, maybe never. “I did no less than what needed to be done. No less than what you have done for me.” 

“I’ve never – “

“Not that – but you’ve killed to protect me.” Neal thinks of Adler – his lean, aristocratic face twisted in rage and going slack as a bullet from Peter’s gun explodes in his heart. “You’ve risked your career to bring me home, to keep me out of prison. There’s nothing more to discuss.” He’ll never forget their reunion – Peter stepping out of the shadows with open arms. Wrapping those arms around him, holding him tight, whispering how much he missed him. No, Neal will never forget that.

He sighs and rests his head on Peter’s shoulder. He never imagined that their first intimate contact would be so … innocent. Maybe it’s for the best. He’s stained now, too damaged for the purity of love he feels for this man.

Peter’s lips brush his forehead, and a memory surfaces. He’s tired; the day was hot but good. Neal thinks that it was his birthday. Someone comes into his room, covers him and brushes his forehead with a kiss. He wants to cry at the memory; instead, he forces himself to remember the truth he does know about James Bennett.

“He wasn’t framed.”

Peter looks at him, head tilted like a quizzical bird. 

“James said he was set up, framed for his supervisory officer’s murder. That someone had planted his back-up piece near the body.”

Peter nods. “That was why he wanted to find Ellen’s evidence box. He hoped it would lead him to the real killer, or who set him up.”

Betrayal is a sour taste in his mouth. “No, he wanted to make sure that Ellen had no proof that _he_ was the real killer. That she had no proof of any other crimes he committed.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Remember – James said his back-up gun had been planted. The official report of the shooting said that his service revolver was used to commit the murder. I guess Ellen was never willing to admit – even to herself – that she _knew_ my father …” Neal stops, correct himself. “That James was a cop killer.”

“So, after everything, what was the point of James chasing after the box? Just to get Pratt?”

“I don’t know, Peter. James confessed to the murder, he testified against the Flynn organization in exchange for that guilty plea. He served no additional time and was relocated to Montana under WitSec. Looking at it now, it all seems kind of pointless. Even if the evidence proved his guilt, it wouldn’t change anything.”

Peter holds him a little tighter. “Maybe he just wanted to get to know his son?”

Neal twists free and regrets the loss of contact. “No – no. He didn’t want to know me at all. He couldn’t care less – it was all a con. He’s better than I’ll ever be.”

“Neal – no. I’ve seen how he looks at you. Whatever he’s done, James loves you.”

“And you didn’t see he face when he came back to my apartment and started looking through the papers. His face when I confronted him. When I told him that I knew what he’d done. You didn’t see the ugliness there when I told him that he had to go and tell them the truth – that he shot Pratt.”

Peter pulls him back into his arms. They stay like that for a while, Peter absorbing the truth of all those lies. 

“He told me –” And Neal struggles to keep his emotions in check. “He told me that I shouldn’t take the fall for this. I should be like him, I guess – let someone else take the rap.”

Peter sighs, his breath ruffling the hair at his temple. “Then it seems that Bennett doesn’t know you at all. He doesn’t know you, he doesn’t understand you – what makes you tick. You may be misguided at times…”

Neal lets out a watery chuckle. “Yeah.”

“You may do foolish things, you may have the impulse control of a three year old, but you’d never, ever let anyone take the fall for your actions. You were willing to go to prison for the rest of your life to keep Keller behind bars. You are a good man, Neal Caffrey. You are not your father.”

Something in Neal, a hard, cold knot of fear and self-loathing that’s been growing since he was seventeen and Ellen told him a version of the truth, shrinks. It doesn’t go away, but it eases, just a little. Maybe someday he’ll wholly believe Peter’s words, that even though he is his father’s son, he is not James Bennett. He is not evil.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal slides the small electronic device across the table. “I hope this has the proof that MacLeish is paying Carter Anderson to kill Peter. And Moz – thank you for _not_ telling me just who the head guard was. I don’t need more surprises like that.”

Moz shrugs. He didn’t tell Neal because, well, he didn’t want to make a bad situation worse. He plugs the device into another handheld unit – this one’s supposed to read the data from the phone. He navigates and scrolls and finally finds what he’s looking for: the wire transfer transmission receipt. “Here you go.” He shows it to Neal.

“And how are you going to prove that this money came from MacLeish’s accounts, and how are you going to convince anyone that this isn’t some fake or forgery concocted to get Peter out?”

“Oh ye of little faith.” His tone is chiding, but the truth is, Moz doesn’t quite know how to get around the problems Neal poses. 

“You need to talk to Peter’s attorney. He’ll know what to do.”

“Don’t worry, _mon frére_ , you and Peter will be out sooner than you think.”

Neal gets this terrible, hopeful look in his eyes. “You know where he is?”

“There have been … sightings.”

“Moz – don’t bullshit me.”

“I’m not – someone matching his description approached Ira about a rush job. Passport, license, birth certificate. Ira’s no friend of the Feds, but he does remember that you once stood up for him.”

“Have you talked with Jones or Diana?” 

“Yeah – I’ve been in contact with the Demi-Suits. They aren’t happy people right now.”

“What’s wrong?”

“They are in a bad way with the Bad Suit. Neither would tell me much.” Moz is angry – he doesn’t trust the Feds (that goes without saying) – but these are good people and they are being made to pay for things they didn’t do. He doesn’t tell Neal about his conversation with the Old Gray Suit and just what else the scary bastard gave him. What he’s passed on to Jones and Diana.

“All the more reason to get Bennett into custody.” Neal looks like shit. Betrayal does that to a person. “You’ve got to get with Peter’s attorney right now. Peter will tell him to expect your call.”

“I’m not calling a land shark like that!” His paranoid reaction is second nature, and he flushes, embarrassed. “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him within the hour.”

The silence becomes awkward. Moz wants to ask, but he doesn’t want to know. In the end, he’s a friend before anything else. “How bad?”

Neal just shakes his head. 

“Okay.” There’s nothing more to say. Moz puts the gadgets in his briefcase. “Don’t lose hope, Neal. ‘Even in the inevitable moments when all seems hopeless, men know that without hope they cannot really live, and in agonizing desperation they cry for the bread of hope.’”

That gets a reaction from him. “When did you start quoting the Reverend King?”

“Would you prefer Aristotle? ‘Hope is a waking dream.’ ”

Neal smiles at him for the first time today. Moz takes hope in that.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“How much longer, do you think?” Clinton is uncharacteristically impatient.

“She’s going to make us wait until we’ve gone crazy.” Diana’s reply is full of venom. She makes no attempt to disguise how much she despises Calloway. 

He doesn’t blame her. In the space of a week and a half, Amanda Calloway’s thoroughly destroyed the White Collar unit. Not only are Peter and Neal in prison, Flint and Wylie, two good agents who’ve worked in the division for over a decade, have put in for transfers. And the two of them are on the thinnest of ice. She didn’t take their badges after the debacle at the Empire State Building, when it became obvious that they had worked with Peter to misdirect the search for that damn box. But that decision is still pending.

“I’ve got a good lawyer, if you want to fight the suspension,” Diana tells him.

“You really think it’s inevitable?”

She nods, and Clinton has to agree. 

“If Peter …” Diana doesn’t finish the thought.

“He’s not going to be convicted; this isn’t going to go to trial. We know where Bennett will be in a week. We’ll arrest him and even if I have to break his arms off, he’s going to confess.”

Diana gives him a tight smile. She’s not convinced. And truthfully, neither is he. Calloway’s blocked any release of the evidence that was in Ellen Parker’s box. She’s claiming that the chain of custody has been tainted and it’s now worthless. Besides, Pratt’s dead and smearing the distinguished career of that honorable corpse would serve no purpose. She’s not even interested in pursuing Neal’s father; she says that the evidence is too damning against Peter and there’s no point in wasting limited FBI resources. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore that Bennett was wanted in connection with an assault on Pratt, and Pratt’s bodyguard admits to taking the box and Bennett to Pratt before he was shot.

But Calloway’s stonewalling is not going to stop them. They’ll act on Mozzie’s tip from his friend, the guy who’s making a new identity for Bennett. They’ll arrest Neal’s father and they’ll bring him to justice, regardless of what Calloway says. And if she takes their badges, they are not without friends. A lot of people in the FBI are appalled at how Peter’s being treated, and Clinton’s inbox has been flooded with offers of assistance from every department, not to mention Peter’s contacts in the NYPD. Hell, even Ruiz cornered him this morning to ask what he could do. 

It’s a weird feeling, to be sitting at his desk with nothing to do. Calloway’s confiscated all of their active files. He and Diana have been showing up and marking time, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Which is why he’s surprised when the mail clerk delivers a pair of inter-office envelopes; one for him and one for Diana. He opens his and grins at the contents. The little guy’s come through for all of them. 

Before he gets a chance to share the information with Diana, who hasn’t opened hers yet, says, “Look who’s stepped out of her throne room.” 

Clinton follows Diana’s gaze up to the balcony. Calloway is standing there, a cat-like grin of satisfaction on her face. 

She gives him the double-fingered summons. “Agent Jones – my office, now.”

He’s nervous, but he has to smile. He’s just been handed the perfect trump card at the perfect time and he knows he’s only got one shot at playing it. He puts the flash drive in a desk drawer and locks it. But he’s going to bring the transcript with him and folds it up before sliding it into his jacket pocket.

He schools his face to disinterested blandness and goes into Calloway’s office and he’s almost grateful that it doesn’t feel like Agent Hughes’ anymore. The artwork on the walls is different, the old framed photos of New York City have been replaced by those of the modern Atlanta skyline, and there’s a football in a display box next to an Atlanta Falcons ball cap. 

She’s made herself at home, apparently.

“Sit.” Her voice is hard; she’s commanding him like he’s a dog.

He’d prefer to stand, but there’s no point in antagonizing Calloway unnecessarily – or at least not until he’s ready to. So he sits.

Calloway leans back in her chair; she has a “concerned administrator” look on her face. Clinton’s familiar with that expression, he’d seen it enough in the Navy, usually on mid-level COs who were unsure of their command. 

“I really don’t know what to do with you – you and Agent Berrigan.” Calloway flips open a file. Clinton sees that it’s his (he learned to read upside down in law school). “Your records are stellar – commendation after commendation. You’re apparently up for promotion.”

Clinton hopes his poker face is still in place. He hadn’t known that.

“So – I’m faced with a difficult choice. You’re one of the best two agents in this division, but you’re loyalty is questionable.”

That sets Clinton’s own back up, and his jaw clenches. How dare she question _his_ loyalty when hers can be bought for a promotion?

“You foolishly stood by Peter Burke even as he set himself on a course of professional suicide.”

Clinton’s temper snaps. It’s almost audible. “Agent Burke was doing his job; he was investigating allegations of corruption –”

Calloway cuts him off. “Allegations made by a convicted cop killer.”

“Actually, no. Agent Burke began his investigation when Dennis Flynn, Jr., the prime suspect in the murder of Ellen Parker and two U.S. Marshals, was killed during a prison transfer. A transfer ordered by Senator Pratt.”

Calloway looks like she’s been slapped. It’s clear that this is something she’s not aware of. And her surprise makes her indiscreet. “Regardless, Burke was stupid to open the investigation. He should have known better that to pry into the Senator’s business. His days here were numbered, even with that stupid stunt at the Empire State Building.”

It’s as if all the air is sucked out of the room, then rushes back in, icy cold. Clinton doesn’t quite believe he heard what he thought he heard. And any worries he has about using the information that Mozzie provided evaporate. He feels like he’s just won the lottery, that it’s Christmas morning and his birthday all at once. He doesn’t care if that triumph shows on his face. 

“It’s funny, Agent Calloway, that you question my honor, you question Agent Burke’s intelligence. But by your own words, your integrity is seriously deficient.” He tosses the transcript onto her desk.

“What is this?”

“Read it.”

Clinton watches her face. The emotions, outrage and fear, chase each other in quick succession.

“Where did you get this?” she demands.

He doesn’t bother to answer her. “That’s not your problem.” Clinton knows that the legal value of the recording is minimal, but it’s the thin edge of the wedge, and he’s going to use it to pry Peter and Neal out of jail, and hopefully Calloway out of this office. “You tipped off a suspect in a major corruption investigation. That alone warrants a full scale investigation by OPR. That you had been in contact with that suspect previously leads to a whole lot of other questions – like why you were selected to head up this division when there are agents with far more experience within this office. Or didn’t you get the FBI’s administration memo on the need to promote from within divisions?”

Clinton takes no small satisfaction when Calloway realizes that she’s royally screwed. As he hoped, she’s prepared to deal and she asks him, “What do you want?”

“Well, I want Reese Hughes back in charge and I want you to crawl back into whatever dank hole you occupied before you sold yourself to Pratt in exchange for this promotion. But since that’s not going to happen, I’ll settle for your sign-off to act on the tip on James Bennett’s location.” Clinton then adds, “You’ll stay out of the op and you’ll stay out of the interrogation.”

Calloway nods and then shuffles through some papers on her desk. She pulls out the operations request that he had filed earlier today. Her hand trembles as she scribbles a signature and gives it to him. “I don’t think we have anything more to discuss. This matter is closed?”

Clinton takes the paper but doesn’t say anything. He isn’t going to speak for what Diana plans to do with the information.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

This morning’s meeting with Claude doesn’t go well. Peter’s short tempered with him, but he takes it all with good grace.

“Danforth’s agreed to hear the reconsideration motion tomorrow afternoon. You may be out of here soon.”

Peter doesn’t know if he can believe that. Hope is a terrible thing. “Neal, too. I get bail, he gets released, back on the tracker.”

“I don’t think Judge Danforth has any jurisdiction over Caffrey. That’s up to the penal authorities.”

“I don’t want to hear that – if Neal has to stay here, I’m staying too.”

“Peter – don’t be foolish. Caffrey made a choice to surrender his liberty; you can’t tie your fate to his.”

Peter is immovable on this. “Neal did that to protect me. This has already cost him far too much.” He’s not telling Claude what Neal did last night; Claude doesn’t need to know that. “He’s in as much danger from MacLeish as I am, maybe more.”

Claude nods in reluctant agreement. “I’ll see what I can do. But I can’t make promises.”

Peter doesn’t accept that, but thanks his attorney anyway. “You’ll get in touch with Neal’s attorney?”

“Dante Havisham?”

“Yeah.”

“You know that there’s no attorney by that name listed in the State Bar directory.”

Peter really doesn’t want to get into that. “Look, don’t ask too many questions, okay? Just get in touch with him as soon as you can. He’s got proof that MacLeish has paid off some of the guards here.”

Claude sighs. “Okay – but I can’t perpetrate a fraud on the court. This evidence has to be solid.”

“Just get with him, please.”

“All right – but …”

“Claude.” Peter understands the man’s reluctance, but he needs him to do this.

They make their goodbyes, and Claude also promises to contact Elizabeth. “I’ll tell her you’re doing fine. No need for her to worry unnecessarily.”

Peter wants to laugh. Claude clearly doesn’t know Elizabeth at all. 

Their timing is good; as Peter’s being escorted back to his cell, another guard is escorting Neal and they join up. One guard in front of him, Neal behind him, and another guard trailing them both. They pass another group of prisoners being marched down the same corridor.

Peter’s mind is caught up with the problems Claude raised when Neal screams, “Knife” and pushes him to the ground. There are shouts from the guards and whistles from the other prisoners. Neal is a dead weight across his back and he struggles to get up, desperate to see it Neal’s been hurt.

The commotion is over in a matter of seconds. Someone pulls Neal off of him and pulls him upright. The hallway’s been cleared. Someone else asks him if he’s okay. He’s shaken, a little bruised at his knees and shoulders from when he hit the floor, but otherwise he’s fine. He turns and looks for Neal, who’s being held by a guard. There’s a thick trail of blood trickling down his arm and his orange prison shirt is cut open across his belly, the ripped edges revealing a thin line of blood and skin.

Peter’s vision goes dark. He might cavalierly dismiss the threat against his life, but for someone, anyone, to harm _Neal_ makes him crazy. He pulls out of the guard’s hold and goes to Neal, touching his injured arm, the wound on his belly. His fingers go slick, then sticky as the blood starts to dry.

The guard on Neal says he should go to the infirmary.

Neal refuses. He’s adamant. “No – and give someone another chance at Peter?” He stands up straight, smooths down his shirt like it’s a suit jacket. Peter’s seen that gesture a million times; it’s the prelude to some con. Neal gives him a tight smile. 

The guard shrugs. “It’s your life. Hope your shots are up to date.”

They make it back to their cell without any further incident. The door slams shut behind them, and for the first time, the sound doesn’t make Peter sick. Now, it’s the sound of safety. No one will hurt them in here.

Neal starts to say something, but Peter quiets him. Words will wait. 

He tugs off Neal’s shirt, and except for the blood on the sleeve and the front, it’s clean. Peter rips it apart and dampens one strip. He cleans the cut on Neal’s arm first. It’s not deep, but it’s ragged, as if the knife – the shiv – had a jagged edge. Peter hopes it doesn’t scar. He concentrates on cleaning up every speck of blood. It’s that concentration that lets him keep his temper. Peter finishes by wrapping another clean strip of orange fabric around it.

Nothing like being a Boy Scout.

He takes a deep breath and focuses on the cut across Neal’s belly. Peter pushes him down onto the mattress. “Shh, relax. Let me take care of you.” He dampens another piece of cloth and cleans away the blood. This cut is much shallower than the one on his arm. It looks like the knife snagged on the fabric, preventing a much greater injury.

The wound is no longer bleeding, but the edges are red and it’s going to hurt like hell. Neal sighs. He lifts a hand and briefly rests it against Peter’s head before letting it fall back to the mattress. “This is why I’m here.”

Peter’s mind rebels at that – it’s not supposed to be like this. He takes care of Neal, he takes care of Elizabeth. He’s supposed to watch over the people he loves.

This truth has always been easy in his mind, but acting on it has not, until now. Suddenly, there’s no need to keep these feelings hidden anymore. He presses a kiss on the wound, and another against the unmarked flesh. Then another over the shallow indentation of Neal’s navel. The skin is like hot velvet, the muscles twitching in reaction to his caresses. Other muscles are reacting too. But Neal struggles a bit, becoming restive against Peter’s mouth. He looks up at Neal and is shocked at the stricken expression on his face.

“Don’t, Peter – please. Don’t.” Neal’s plea all but breaks his heart.

“You don’t want this?” Has he misread Neal? Were all those years of flirting, of game playing, the heated looks, the silent communication – were Neal’s feelings strictly familial?

Neal’s laugh is painfully bitter. “I don’t want you to destroy your life. Any more than I already have. Elizabeth hates me enough as it is.”

Peter’s relieved – he hasn’t misread Neal. And he appreciates Neal’s resistance. They should have had this conversation a long time ago. He moves up Neal’s body, careful of the cut, until they are face-to-face. “If I say, don’t worry, will you just accept that?”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter’s here, his body hot against him, his desire for him evident. The love and pride in his eyes is a fearsome thing. But it’s Peter’s words, _“Don’t worry”_ that send terror through him. There are whole soliloquies hidden in them, and they can make all of his dreams come true. Or destroy him.

He’s accustomed to living in the moment, because whenever he plans for a future, it all turns to shit. But this is Peter, who does nothing without considering the consequences. He’s the least impetuous person Neal’s ever met. If he tells Neal not to worry, there’s no subtext there. He simply has nothing to worry about.

It’s up to Neal to have faith in that command. Peter’s never been anything less than trustworthy and Neal tries not to remember all the times he’s misled Peter, all the times he’s diverted and dissembled, the lies of omission and misdirection.

“Neal?” Peter’s waiting and it’s their lives, their future in the balance. Peter has faith in him; he can have nothing less in Peter.

“Yes.” It’s as simple as that. Before the word stops echoing between them, Neal pulls Peter down and kisses him. 

He’s had years of dirty dreams about this moment. They started as far back as the night after he gave Peter the lime sucker. Kate never knew that there was always a third person in bed with them. Their imaginary first kiss was a frequent feature during the long nights in Sing-Sing, and it had played almost non-stop during the first few months after he moved into June’s. He still fantasizes about it.

There’s little variation in those dream-kisses. At first, Peter’s tentative – he’s not sure about kissing Neal – kissing a guy. Then it doesn’t matter as he takes control, devouring him with licks and bites, making him insane with need.

The reality of their first kiss is different. Peter certainly isn’t tentative; he kisses with the same unstated authority that he does with everything in life. You always know by his simple presence in the room that he’s in charge. 

The kiss is a thing of beauty. Peter holds him like he’s the most precious thing in the universe, both fragile and infinitely strong. But he’s not demanding surrender; he’s asking Neal to be his equal.

He wants that – he wants to be to Peter what Peter is to him. Strong and wise and capable. His equal.

There’s a small voice, it’s whisper-quiet, and it’s telling him that he’ll never be Peter’s equal. Peter is too good, too kind, too wise, and he, Neal, can never measure up to that. He pushes a little against Peter and the cut on his belly stings and burns. The memory of the attack in the hallway, how he protected Peter, how he was prepared to die silences that small, nasty voice.

He is – at least in one small respect – Peter’s equal. He’s prepared to do anything it takes to keep those he loves safe.

Peter’s hands are all over him, touching him with exquisite care. He breaks their kiss and asks him if he’s all right.

Neal smiles and his happiness is a perfect thing in this tiny, grim cell. “Yes.” The answer, when and if Peter asks again, will always be _yes._

They strip and there is more joy in the shared wonder at each other’s physical perfection. The moment echoes in their breathless laughter and Peter backs him up against the bunk. This is another first he’s dreamed up, and in all the scenarios he’s envisioned, the first time they fuck isn’t on some dirty prison mattress. But it doesn’t matter. Peter’s in his arms, he’s in Peter’s arms and if tomorrow brings disaster, they will still have tonight.

He wants to explore Peter, he wants to find the places that make him gasp and moan and hum with pleasure. Peter wants to do the same thing to him and it’s a contest and a struggle on the narrow mattress. He’s pinned and he gasps – there’s a bad memory there.

Peter sees it in his face and he lets go. But Neal doesn’t want to stop. Nothing will keep him from this. He twists and grabs Peter, who lets him manhandle him. He rolls them over and Peter’s now flat on his back, looking up at Neal and the love there is better than any dream.

Neal reaches between the cement bunk and the mattress; he finds the strip of condoms and goes to tear one off. They’ll both suit up, because he will not risk Peter’s health.

Peter wraps a hand around his and pulls the condoms away, tossing them out of reach. “We don’t need those.”

“Peter – no.”

“I trust you, Neal.”

His heart races, he thinks it might be beating its last. Peter puts his hand on his cock and strokes him. His gun callouses are scratchy against the tight skin and Neal just about loses control. His touch is possessive, sure. Peter owns Neal’s cock as surely as he owns Neal’s heart and soul.

So he breathes deep and leans over, kissing Peter at the sweet corner of his mouth. “I want you to fuck me, Peter. Please, I need your cock inside me.”

The words are simple, the plea as dirty and as heartfelt as anything he’s ever asked of anyone.

Peter combs his fingers through his hair and rubs his cheek, rough with a few days stubble, against his own unshaven face. He smiles and kisses Neal, slow and lingering. There is no need to say anything. Neal kisses a smile back as he realizes how ludicrous his plea is. As if Peter’s deny this request.

Peter rolls them around and Neal’s on his back, his thighs spread wide, hips angled up. Peter understands that they need to be face to face, that he needs to see Peter, know that Peter’s above him, inside him, loving him.

Peter sort of apologizes as he spits on his fingers and starts to loosen Neal up. He doesn’t care about that. Peter’s going in bare, there’s nothing between them – not even a layer of slick – to pretty up what they are doing.

He almost comes as the broad head of Peter’s cock breaches the tight ring of muscle. He angles his hips upward, wrapping a leg around his hips, pushing himself onto Peter.

“Stop – I don’t want to hurt you.” Peter hisses, his face red, his torso coated in sweat from the effort not to ram into him.

It does hurt, the burn is sharp and new and Neal wants it to last forever. But he lets Peter set the pace, and the ache flares as Peter presses forward, inch by inch until he’s buried to his balls.

Neither of them last much longer than that. Neal meets Peter’s thrusts, once, twice, and once more before Peter loses control. He pulls out and rubs his dick against Neal’s before he spills over Neal’s belly and penis. It’s the dirtiest thing that someone he loves has done to him, and the combination of Peter’s burning hot cock on his own aching dick and the first splash of semen, Neal loses it too. He comes and it’s like it’s never going to end.

Somewhere between the pounding beats of his heart, Neal thinks he hears Peter say, “I love you.”

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Moz decides to beard the land shark in his den. He’s already put his life at risk by meeting with the Old Gray Suit and accepting food (and government tech) from his hand. There’s no point in getting twitchy now.

He has to admit, as predator’s dens go, this place isn’t so bad. There’s a slightly stuffy quality to all of the polished wood and leather, but the artwork is museum quality (although that seventh century BCE Attic _pixis_ would really look a lot better in the neoclassical décor of Saturday) and the espresso that he’s served is perfection, redolent of berries and spices.

An assistant ushers him into an office that could double as the Sun King’s reception chamber (if Louis XIV preferred Art Deco over Rococo). Peter’s attorney, the Claude Hanlon of Hanlon Meyers Dorfman & Heinz, plc, is almost lost amidst the splendor.

He’s left standing there in an awkward silence until Hanlon looks up. Yes, land shark is definitely the right appellation. His eyes are icy pale over the bifocals, his slicked -back hair is platinum gray, a few shades lighter than the Armani Collezioni suit he’s wearing. He doesn’t blink.

Hanlon leads with a powerful right hook. “You bullshit me, I’ll have you arrested for practicing law without a license.”

Uncowed, Moz dodges the blow, barely. “Well, I wouldn’t say I’m actually _practicing…_.”

Hanlon stares at him and Moz almost wishes he was meeting with Hughes instead. 

“Peter Burke seems to think that you’ll be able to help him. That’s the only reason I agreed to meet with you.”

Moz deposits his briefcase on what looks to be an authentic Émile Jacques Ruhlmann sideboard, complete with rosewood and ivory inlays (there’s a perfect spot for this in Monday, right below the Tiffany window). He takes out the cloning device and reader and gives it to Hanlon.

“The cost to get this information is incalculable.” Of course, the data’s been backed up, but it almost kills him to turn over the original.

Claude scrolls through the information. “Whose phone did this come off of?”

“Carter Anderson’s. He’s the head guard at the Manhattan Correctional Facility.”

“When?” Hanlon’s a man of few words.

“Last night. Check out the emails from Boris LeTracer and the First Bank of the Grand Caymans.” That’s the all-important wire transfer confirmation.

Hanlon finds it. “A quarter million for ‘the job, ten percent up front.’ Who is Boris LeTracer?”

“It’s an anagram for Robert MacLeish; one of few aliases that the FBI hadn’t burned.” Before Moz left Cape Verde, he made it a point to learn everything he could about the erstwhile Henry Dobbs. It’s still a point of shame with him that he got caught flatfooted in such a critical situation. Imagine paying protection money to a long-standing member of the FBI’s Most Wanted.

Hanlon keeps looking through the data. “This isn’t something that can be admitted into evidence.”

Moz’s heart sinks. All that, for nothing.

“But that doesn’t mean we can’t use this as proof that Peter’s life is in danger.”

“And Neal’s.” 

Claude nods. “Yes, and Neal Caffrey’s, too.” He gives Moz, in his Today’s Man off-the-rack poly-wool blend suit, a considering stare. “You feel like joining me at the U.S. Attorney’s Office?”

He throws his shoulders back, his chin goes up and he feels like he can take on the world. “Why not?”

They are about to leave when Claude’s assistant comes in without so much as a knock. There’s a troubled look on her face as she hands her boss a note.

Hanlon reads it and his face goes grim. “Peter was attacked by another inmate. He had a knife. Caffrey saved his life.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It’s been four days, but it feels like four months or a lifetime. She misses Peter, the pain is visceral. It’s like an infection through the whole house. Satchmo just lays there, unmoving. He doesn’t eat and he can barely summon the interest to go out. Every so often, he lifts his head, his ears perk up and he looks at the front door, his eyes filled with a pathetic sort of hope that dies all too easily.

But it’s just the mail, or a package or a neighbor looking to satisfy her curiosity. Thankfully, reporters have stopped stalking the house. The murder has moved off of the front page, at least for now.

El should care, but she doesn’t, that business has dropped off precipitously. It seems that bridezillas don’t want the wife of a man arrested for federal murder handling their weddings. 

Even Moz has abandoned her. Apparently her rage against Neal was just too much for him to take. She does wish that he’d come back. She’d like to tell him that she’s really not angry at Neal anymore. 

It seems that everyone’s abandoned her. Yvonne and Brittany are holding the fort, managing what little business she has left. Her so-called friends are treating her like toxic waste. She can’t bear to talk with her parents – her father’s so fucking self-righteous. The last time they spoke, she screamed at him before disconnecting and throwing the phone violently against the wall. 

June’s been a friend, the only one she’s been able to rely on. She comes over with food and whiskey and listens to her rant. She doesn’t pass judgment and she doesn’t offer platitudes or tell her that it will all be fine.

June’s been through this – or something like it. She sits beside her when Claude tells her that she’ll need to get another mortgage, because even though he’s discounting his fees for Peter, his bill will need to be paid promptly.

But June isn’t here right now and Elizabeth is alone and she can’t stand the sound of her own thoughts.

Her cellphone buzzes and she almost doesn’t answer. But it’s a new phone – June got it for her. Other than June, only three people have the number – Peter, Moz, and Claude. She checks the readout. It’s the attorney and she supposes that she should answer.

“What?” She’s tired and doesn’t put any effort into being pleasant. This isn’t going to be the news she wants to hear. The motion for Peter’s bail isn’t for another few hours (not like she’s watching the clock or anything).

She doesn’t quite believe what she’s hearing. “A knife? Someone attacked Peter with a knife?” Her voice rises to a scream – or maybe that’s just the terror inside her head.

Claude assures her that Peter’s fine. Apparently Neal Caffrey – and she knows who Caffrey is, right? Well, it seems that Neal spotted the attack and stopped it. He was cut, but not too badly.

The call ends. Claude’s about to meet with the U.S. Attorney and things are looking good for getting Peter out. He tells her that the attack will work in his favor. Not to be optimistic, but Peter could be home tonight or tomorrow. She might want to think about coming over to the courthouse, and bringing her checkbook might be a good idea.

None of these words matter. She drops the phone on the couch because her hands are shaking too much to hold onto it. She keeps imagining Peter on some grimy floor, cut and bleeding and dying. Then it’s Neal in a pool of blood. Or they’re both dead.

It’s been four days and Elizabeth finally breaks.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

They are entwined like lovers. Which is appropriate, since that’s what they are now, lovers.

Peter can’t help but take some small satisfaction in this thought. He’s wanted this for as long as he can remember, but he never thought the moment would come. El’s never been shy about encouraging him to act on his feelings, but Peter’s reluctance is based not only on his responsibilities as Neal’s handler, but on Neal’s life. Even before he takes Neal on as his CI, he tells El that lusting after Neal is an exercise in futility. He’s got a girlfriend, right? He loves her so much that he broke out of prison to find her, right? 

El laughs and tells Peter he’s being too narrow-minded. He shrugs and he’s a little insulted. _Narrow-minded?_ He’s the last person who should be called that. He likes smart, and even if Neal’s escape is a boneheaded stunt, he still likes him. He still wants him. 

What follows is nearly three years of wanting and not having. Of course, there’s Sara to consider. She’s really a perfect match for Neal, someone who could keep Neal on the right side of the law and on his toes and there’s no way he’s going to do anything to damage that.

But Sara’s gone and Neal’s here and there’s still way too much between them for Peter to act upon his feelings.

He knows that denial is supposed to make him stronger, but sometimes it makes him have blue balls and raging hard-ons and inappropriate thoughts during inconvenient moments.

El keeps teasing him; she always knows when he’s fantasizing about Neal. She makes him tell her all his dirty dreams and their own sex life has never been better. She tells him that if it was anyone else – Diana or Lauren any of the smart young things that come prancing through the Bureau – she’d divorce him or castrate him. Or maybe both. But Neal’s special. 

Yes, he certainly is.

Neal tosses, turns so they are spooning, and falls back to sleep. Peter looks at his sleeping lover, marvels at him until his gaze catches the makeshift bandage on his arm and the fresh blood trickling out from under it. The anger he sublimated earlier comes roaring back.

A few inches either way and Neal could have died. Rage crackles at that thought and the peace and satisfaction he felt just a few moments ago is replaced by an all-consuming need to get out of here. To get Neal out of here. He wonders what time it is – he’s supposed to be transferred over to the courthouse for the motion hearing. He doesn’t want to leave Neal. He worries – no he’s terrified – that Neal’s going to be whisked away, made to pay some awful price for keeping him safe. He can’t let that happen.

The sound of a nightstick clatters against the solid steel door and a guard calls out. “Burke – you and Caffrey are scheduled for court.”

Peter’s confused. Neal doesn’t have a court hearing. “What do you mean, Caffrey, too?” He shakes Neal, who gets up and starts getting dressed. Peter does the same.

“The two of you are to be transferred over to Federal District Court by two PM. It’s one-thirty now and I’ve got my orders – don’t make my life difficult.”

They are both fully dressed when the guard opens the door. Well Peter is – Neal’s shirt doesn’t exist anymore. The guard sighs at Neal’s bloodstained torso. “You’re gonna cause a riot walking around like that.” He tosses a clean orange jersey at Neal, who puts it on.

Peter’s cautious as he steps out of the cell. This time, he’s the one who’s going to watch Neal’s back. But Neal doesn’t let him and they jostle each other for position until the guards stop them. Neal’s behind him again and Peter feels like he’s got a big target painted on him. Every corner is filled with danger and even the elevator ride is fraught.

By the time they get to the bus that will take them to the court house, Peter’s sweating, his jaw aches from the stress. And he can’t forget that it was during a transfer that Dennis Flynn, Jr. was killed.

They are loaded onto the bus and cuffed with the shackles hanging down from a roof rack. Apparently, they are the only passengers. Peter tries not to think about how easy it would be to take both of them out. He and Neal are sitting ducks and if MacLeish has paid off the guards, all it would take is two bullets.

But the driver starts the engine and the bus pulls away from the loading area. There’s a guard riding shotgun – literally. 

“Nice to see some sun.” Neal’s leaning back in his seat, his face tilted up to catch the sunbeams that filter through the grimy windows. The light gilds his eyelashes, adorns the slack curls on his forehead, the three days of stubble on his cheeks. 

Peter’s entranced, until the bus hits a pothole and they all bounce too hard. He can’t afford to be distracted, even while Neal seems completely relaxed.

Soon enough, the bus pulls into the underground garage, and custody is transferred to the courthouse personnel. He even recognizes the bailiff who signs off on the transfer. The man looks at him, and if he connects Peter Burke, prisoner to Peter Burke, FBI agent, he says nothing.

It’s better that way.

Peter’s actually never been to this part of the courthouse. It’s clean, brightly lit and there are armed guards posted at every doorway along the corridor. He looks back at Neal, who doesn’t seem at all fazed by this. Maybe it’s all too familiar to him.

But apparently not. As they are waiting for the elevator, Neal leans over and whispers, “We’re VIPs – Very Important Prisoners. I’ve never seen quite so many armed guards.”

The elevator arrives and there are not only armed guards inside, but two FBI agents as well. Diana and Clinton. They are wearing vests and carrying shotguns. He’s relieved to see that they both still have their badges.

“Hi, boss.” Diana grin is fierce, but her familiar greeting warms his soul. 

“Heard about what happened this morning. Thought you could use some backup.” That’s all that Clinton says. Peter gives him a grateful smile.

The guards stand in front and behind them and the two agents are at their sides. Peter’s shoulder touches Neal’s and it’s the first physical contact they’ve had since they left their cell. The brief touch is electric and Peter can feel his body respond. He looks at Neal, but his head’s down. He can see; though, just the edges of a wicked smile.

Thankfully, The ride is short and They are escorted to a small holding area. There’s another guard there, plus two garment bags. 

Diana explains, “I picked out a suit for you, Neal. That’s quite a closet you’ve got for yourself.”

When Diana mentions the closet, Neal’s startled look surprises Peter. He wonders just what Neal’s got hidden in there. But that’s for another time, when they are both free.

Clinton and Diana leave them, and the guards give them some privacy, too. Peter wants to say something to Neal about what happened just a few hours ago. Neal strips and Peter thinks he can smell _them_. He’s about to say something but Neal shakes his head.

“Don’t – not now, not here.”

“Do you regret it?”

Neal looks at him, his smile grave. His shakes his head. “How can I? But this isn’t the place to talk about it.”

_No, of course it’s not._

They finish dressing. He fusses a little with his tie and wishes for a mirror. At least someone – Elizabeth probably – thought to pack a comb for him.

Neal borrows it and tries to restore some order to his own hair, but he’s having trouble with his arm. Blood’s seeping through the thin white cotton shirt. Peter looks around, but there’s nothing in this room that could be used for a bandage.

“It’s fine – don’t worry about it.” Neal seems way too sanguine about the whole thing. They don’t even know why he’s here.

He fixes Neal’s hair and helps him on with the suit jacket. It’s a bit like making love to Neal – the public Neal, the man that the world sees but only Peter knows the essential truth of. Neal’s smiling at him, patient with his fussing as Peter’s fingers linger in his hair, flipping that curl down over his forehead, as his hands brush the non-existent wrinkles out of his jacket. He aches a little at how easily Neal can be remade. 

There’s a knock and Peter looks into those ice blue eyes. Neal nods and Peter calls out that they’re ready.

It’s another short journey to the attorney-client conference rooms. He’s familiar with these. A door opens and he sees Claude, and to his surprise, Mozzie’s here and the U.S. Attorney, too.

“Sit – we don’t have a lot of time – and I’ve got a lot to explain.”

Claude pushes him into a chair and Neal takes the other one. He listens, and for the first time in days, hope is a real thing.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter’s lawyer drones on. Well, not drones. the man is dynamic and charismatic and is certainly earning his not-inconsiderable hourly rate. Claire, the U.S. Attorney, is equally passionate – filling in for Claude when she needs to.

Apparently his trip to Carter Anderson’s office paid off, big time. The evidentiary problems with the illegal cloning of Anderson’s private cell phone are apparently not issues. Claire says that they were able to use the information under the USA Patriot Act because conspiring to kill a Federal employee (and Peter’s still that until a final administrative determination is made) can be deemed an act of terrorism. And besides, the evidence isn’t being used against MacLeish or Anderson. It’s needed to establish a credible threat against Peter Burke’s life. And Neal Caffrey’s.

All of this sort of floats above Neal’s head. It’s almost like he’s drunk on Champagne or high on really fine weed. He can function perfectly, and he answers all of the questions pitched at him with the requisite detail, but most of his brain function is devoted to feeling the ghost of Peter’s hands and his mouth – those kisses – on his body. And his cock inside him. 

He clenches his buttocks and he can still feel that deep burn, the almost-ache. It’s these memories, these lingering sensations that wipe away the feel of Anderson’s hands on him, his rubber-sheathed prick plowing into him. He doesn’t regret that, given this outcome, but he’d rather forget it ever happened.

Before, when they were changing, it had taken all of his self-control not to rub himself against Peter, to fall to his knees and suck him. And when Peter actually wants to talk about it, he can’t believe his own words. _Not now, not here._ When did he become so responsible?

“Neal?” Moz is giving him a look. So maybe he’s not one-hundred percent here. They are all getting up. The lawyers exit first, then the guards come in. They put cuffs on both him and Peter – just for the short trip to the courtroom. Not that anyone expects them to make a break for it, but it is protocol.

Neal gives himself a mental shake. He really does need to give this his full attention and not stay lost in the afterglow. But Peter smiles at him, there’s something private and secret and it’s the same smile that Peter’s given him countless times and it’s altogether new.

He smiles back and the world snaps into place.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter knows Judge Arthur Danforth. He’s testified in his courtroom a dozen times or more. The man is a good jurist, even-handed, fair minded, he knows the law and he knows what justice is and will always make an attempt to balance the two. That was why his venom on the day of his arraignment was so mind-boggling; it was the opposite of what he had expected.

“All rise.” The bailiff’s cry sends everyone to their feet.

The judge enters and gives the customary instruction. They all sit again.

Before Claude and Claire can approach the bench, Danforth starts speaking. “I’ve been reminded, most forcefully, by my colleagues here in the Southern District, and by those who sit on the Second Circuit, that my comments at Agent Burke’s arraignment hearing were highly irregular.” 

Peter sneaks a look at Claude, who’s as puzzled as he is. It is a good sign that the judge is using his title.

Danforth continues, “They were also highly prejudicial and an improper attempt to influence the prosecution’s case. The defense and the prosecution have my deepest apologies.”

Peter feels the tension radiating from Neal. Apologies are all well and good, but he knows that they mean little in a court of law without a ruling.

“I’ve read the motion put forth by the defense, and take note of the circumstances under which the defendant claims that his life is in jeopardy. I’ve also read the prosecution’s reply. Does either party have anything to add?”

Claude looks over at him and at Neal before he stands and addresses the court. “Your Honor, earlier today, as my client was being returned to his cell after our meeting, he was attacked by another prisoner wielding a serrated hunting knife. It was only the quick reactions of Mr. Caffrey …”

Danforth interrupts Claude, “Wait a moment. What do you mean, Mr. Caffrey? Why was Agent Burke’s CI with him in jail? “

“He surrendered his liberty the day after Agent Burke was arraigned, Your Honor.” Claude fills in the details, not so much how Neal manipulates Calloway, but her decision to have him remanded to the Manhattan Correctional Center pending a Morrissey Hearing. “He had just finished meeting with his own counsel, and Agent Burke and Mr. Caffrey were on their way back to their cell when another prisoner attacked Agent Burke. Mr. Caffrey protected Agent Burke until the attacker could be restrained. He was cut on his arm and his torso in the process.”

Hearing Neal’s wounds described so blandly stirs Peter’s anger again. 

“Is Mr. Caffrey in the courtroom?” 

Peter’s losing patience with the process. _Of course he is, you windbag. He’s sitting right next to me, bleeding._

Claude gestures to Neal. Neal, ever the showman, stands with a little difficulty, holding his arm across his belly, like it pains him to move. Peter starts to smile at the act, but stops. Blood has soaked through the arm of his jacket, the dark stain visible against the light gray fabric.

The judge sees the stain, too. “You know you’re bleeding, Mr. Caffrey?”

“Yes, Your Honor – I haven’t had the wound looked at by a doctor yet.”

“Why? Is the prison medical care so lacking that they don’t even bandage injured prisoners?”

“I refused medical treatment, Your Honor.” Neal’s voice rings with sincerity. “I was concerned that Agent Burke would be attacked again if he was left alone while I was in the infirmary. Someone needed to watch out him.”

Danforth, to his credit, doesn’t laugh. In fact, he seems to be taking Neal’s concerns seriously. He waves at Neal to be seated. “Defendant’s motion cites evidence of a conspiracy to kill Agent Burke – there is information that payments were made to the head guard at the facility. The prosecution seems to find that allegations credible.”

Claire stands and replies, “Yes, Your Honor. Although it’s not reflected in the record, Agent Burke was instrumental in the capture and return of Robert MacLeish. MacLeish had ordered an attack on Agent Burke shortly after his arrival at Manhattan Correctional.” Claire continues, “We received a tip that the head guard at Manhattan Correctional had accepted a large bribe from MacLeish. the man that attacked Agent Burke says he found the knife in his cell, with instructions that promised him a carton of cigarettes and a private cell in exchange for killing Agent Burke. We’ve already alerted the Bureau of Prisons and opened an investigation.”

_A carton of smokes and better accommodations._ Peter’s mildly amused at how cheap his life is.

Claire continues. “But in the meantime, Your Honor, Agent Burke and Mr. Caffrey’s lives are in continued jeopardy. The U.S. Attorney’s office has no objections to a reasonable bail request, and asks this court to reconsider its position on the matter.”

Danforth glares at her and snaps, “It’s not the prosecution’s place to make such requests.” 

From this exchange, Peter figures that despite the apology, he’ll be back in his cell very shortly.

The judge shuffles some papers, hands something to his law clerk and finally, _finally_ speaks. “I’ve reviewed the defendant’s motion, the prosecution’s response, I’ve heard more than I want to hear on this subject from people whose opinions I respect. I’ve also heard from my own conscience.” Danforth pauses and glares at the assemblage. “Even though the law does permit me to deny bail for the defendant, I am persuaded that doing so is not in the cause of justice. Bail for Peter Burke is set at five hundred thousand dollars, unsecured personal bond. Agent Burke will surrender his passport and his firearms to the Court.”

Peter’s not quite ready to relax. _What about Neal?_

Thankfully, the judge isn’t done. “I also have a motion to vacate Neal Caffrey’s re-incarceration order before me.” He signs it and passes that to his law clerk. “Normally, this should go through the proper channels with the Bureau of Prisons, but I trust that the parties can deal with those niceties as they need to.”

Claude and Claire nod and murmur, “Yes, Your Honor.”

Danforth bangs his gavel. “Then we’re done here.”

Everyone stands and the judge leaves.

All the tension leaves the room. Claude laughs and claps Peter on the shoulder. “First victory to us. It’s a big one, too. I certainly wasn’t expecting Danforth to give you ROR. Next, we’ve got to get the charges dropped.”

Peter smiles, his face feels stiff – the grin, unnatural. “I’ll just be glad to get home, sleep in my own bed tonight.” Then he remembers…

Neal’s on the other side of the table, talking to Moz and Diana and Clinton. He didn’t hear Peter’s comment, but he looks up and their eyes meet. Neal’s own smile is bright and shining. Diana calls his attention back to something and the smile drops. 

Behind him, a door swings open and his name is called. It’s Elizabeth. She runs up the aisle and into his arms. He holds her tight, she’s laughing and weeping and feels so good against his tired body.

“They said you were attacked. Someone had a knife.” El runs her hands up and down his chest, trying to find the wounds that aren’t there.

“I’m fine, El – it’s okay.” He holds her close, but she twists away, looking for someone. For Neal.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal isn’t quite sure what hit him. One moment he’s talking over the plans to catch James, the next, he’s got a set of arms around him. Clinton and Diana are smiling and Moz just looks very pleased with himself.

A set of impressive breasts and a messy mop of hair accompany those arms. Of course, it’s Elizabeth. He turns to face her – he’s been dreading this moment since Peter was arrested. He dreads it even more now, after what passed between him and Peter. Was it just this morning?

Her beautiful face is tear-streaked; Neal doesn’t ever remember seeing Elizabeth so wrecked. But she’s smiling at him. 

“Thank you, thank you.” She hugs him hard and Neal tries not to wince as she puts pressure on his cuts. 

“Elizabeth, it was …”

“Don’t you dare say it was nothing, that you did what anyone else would have done.” Her admonishment is fierce.

So he doesn’t. Instead, he kisses her cheek and turns her back to her husband. “Peter’s waiting; he needs to go home with you now.” 

She looks at Peter, then at him. There’s knowledge in her eyes, she always sees what Neal keeps hidden. Maybe this won’t be the disaster he fears.

“We’ll talk, later.”

She goes and takes Peter’s hand. Papers are signed and unbelievably, Peter is free to go. Neal watches as they walk out the door and he has the oddest feeling, like he should have said goodbye.

A Marshal comes and puts the tracker back on his ankle. There’s a moment of humor when the man asks, “Who gets the key?”

While Diana and Clinton argue, Moz steps up, hand outstretched. The Marshal would have given it to him, but Clinton laughs and pushes him aside. “This is the last person you should hand that to.”

The paperwork is signed and it’s time to go. Past the time to go. Neal’s getting dizzy, his arm throbs, his belly aches, and he would kill for a really hot shower and a cup of June’s Italian roast. And a bed with clean sheets where he can close his eyes and think about this morning.

Moz must have seen his fatigue; he carefully steers him out of the courthouse and into a waiting taxi.

“Do you need a doctor?”

Neal leans his head back against the seat. “Eventually – I don’t think I need stitches, but probably some antibiotics and some blood tests would be a good idea.”

“You worried about that?”

He sighs, wishing that Moz would just let him sleep. “No, but it never hurts to be certain.”

“Okay – I’ll have someone come over.”

“Tomorrow, Moz. Make it tomorrow.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter appreciates El’s patience, her silence as she drives them back to Brooklyn. He doesn’t know what to say and even if he did, how to say it. So he leans back in the seat and watches the world as it goes by.

“The sky’s so blue.” The comment is banal, but the feelings behind it aren’t. It’s a bright, deep blue, like Elizabeth’s eyes. 

El’s on the same wavelength. “It’s a rare day; you usually don’t see skies like this in the summertime.”

“Hmmm.” Peter thinks that summertime skies in New York are more like Neal’s eyes, a pale blue.

“You’re doing okay?” They’re at a stoplight and El reaches over and takes his hand.

“Yeah.” Peter looks at his wife and marvels. She’s so close; he can just reach out and touch her. So he does, brushing his fingers against her cheek. “Your skin – have I told you how soft it is?”

She smiles and Peter wonders why she looks like she’s about to cry. The light changes, a car behind him honks, and the moment’s broken.

Everything – the colors of the trees, the busyness of the people on the sidewalk, even the rumbling of the trucks as they pass – is almost too beautiful to bear and he closes his eyes.

The car comes to a long stop and it takes a moment for Peter to realize that he’s home. El pats his hand before she gets out of the car. Peter sits there, content to watch the clouds drift by. He must have lingered a bit too long. His car door opens and El’s standing there, holding out her hand to him. He smiles at her, takes her hand and gets out.

He feels sort of … floaty, as if he’s detached from everything and he will just drift off into this deep blue sky if he doesn’t keep holding on to his wife. Then Peter hears Satchmo’s barking, the sound is joyful and Elizabeth laughs. “I don’t know how he knows it’s you, but he does.”

He races up the front steps. Peter needs to see his dog, he can’t wait. El laughs a little and pushes him out of the way – she’s the one with the house keys. Satchmo’s barking is loud enough to rattle the windows and Peter can hear the dog’s nails scratching at the door and floor.

El gets the inner door open and it’s a challenge to get inside. Satchmo’s whining and jumping on him like he’s a puppy. El laughs again. It’s a sweet sound and Peter just falls to his knees. He buries his face in Satchmo’s fur; his arms are full of ecstatic, wriggling dog. Peter strokes the dog’s head, needing to feel the warm silkiness of his fur, the soft-hard floppiness of his ears, the cold wetness of his nose. He needs to know that Satchmo is all right, that he’s alive and well and … _oh, God_ he starts to cry.

Peter doesn’t care that he’s crying. He holds onto his dog and sobs and he can’t stop. His chest hurts and he can’t see and he sucks in air and he sobs again. Whether Satchmo’s happiness makes it worse or better, Peter doesn’t know, but his dog is here and he’s home,

El’s kneeling next to him; a hand is on his back. “What’s the matter, hon?”

He can hear how worried she is. He tries to tell her, but _damn it_ , he can’t stop crying. Satch is licking his face, whimpering now. 

El’s holding him too, she’s rocking him and he tries to hold her, to hold Satchmo, to get a hold of himself.

But the storm does pass, he calms down. He’s home, everyone’s alive, everyone’s safe and that’s all that matters.

“Peter?” There are so many questions in that single word.

“I’m okay now.” He is, really.

“Tell me – please.” 

Peter doesn’t know if he’s ready to tell her everything yet, but he knows he has to tell her this. “The first night – I kept having this thought. It wouldn’t leave me.” He takes a deep breath, the memory of that thought is enough to make him start crying again. “I kept thinking that I was never going to get out and that … that Satchmo would die and I’d never see him again.” 

El’s face crumples at his words. Her eyes flood with tears and she grabs him, holds him tight and he’s crying again, too. They cling to each other and Satchmo, poor Satchmo whimpers and manages to shove his face between them, he’s licking at their tears, trying to give them all the comfort his doggy heart can provide.

Peter laughs, kisses El and tastes her tears. She kisses him back and Satchmo kisses them both.

The floor is too hard and Peter’s too wrecked from everything to want to linger. He stands and holds out a hand to El. She fits him perfectly.

He’s home. For the moment, that really is all that matters.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

“Neal, are you okay?” June’s concern warms his heart; she’s a true friend and understands him better than almost everyone. The doctor she called has come and gone, leaving fresh bandages, a prescription for a broad-spectrum antibiotic, and taking away a few vials of his blood.

He smiles at her. It’s not his conman’s grin – the one that he had given her that morning in the thrift store so long ago – but one from his heart. If it’s a little sad around the edges, June doesn’t comment. “I’m just fine.” He takes a sip of coffee. It’s the famed Italian roast, perfectly brewed. The croissants are fresh and the fruit preserves are ambrosia. It may be the best meal he’s ever eaten. And he laughs at that thought. He’s had the same one every time he’s gotten out of prison and had breakfast with June.

She’s uncannily perceptive. “Three times now – does that make this a ritual?”

“Three?”

She ticks off each instance. “After the charges were dropped from that jewel theft, after Kate …”

Ah, yes. He’d forgotten about the pink diamond. “Maybe it is, but here’s to hoping this is the last time we have our celebratory Neal-Out-Of-Prison meal.” He lifts the champagne flute and taps it against June’s, then takes a sip. It’s Cristal and it goes right to his head.

He tilts his neck back and stares into the deep blue sky. It’s a miracle and Neal tells himself he should never stop appreciating his freedom.

Metal scraps against stone and his view of the sky is momentarily blocked by June. She leans over and presses a most motherly kiss against his forehead. “Get some rest. You’ve been through an ordeal.”

He smiles again and she pats his cheek before leaving.

The warmth and the breeze are a heady combination, and maybe he’s just drunk on freedom and not the bubbly. Neal moves over to the lounger and stretches out. Of course his mind goes back to yesterday and everything that happened.

It’s inevitable, of course, that he also has to remember his interlude with Anderson. But that’s okay – Peter’s free and that makes everything worth it. Neal also has to cherish the memory of waking up in Peter’s arms, the warmth, the safety of that moment. If he ever had any doubts that he was loved, that moment erased them all.

Neal saves and savors the memory of the rest of that morning: saving Peter’s life, Peter holding him, bandaging him, kissing him, _loving_ him.

His phone rings. It’s Moz. He doesn’t want to answer it, but he knows that Moz will keep calling until Neal does.

“Hey there.” He knows he sounds a little apathetic. Appropriately, he doesn’t care.

“Ira’s been in contact with you-know-who.”

Neal appreciates that Moz doesn’t mention his father’s name. “And?”

“The client’s asked for the documents to be ready a few days sooner. He’s getting out of the country.”

“And?”

“Ira’s agreed. He called to tell me that they’re all but done – just waiting for the ink to dry. I’ve called the Suits and it’s all systems go for tomorrow.”

“And Ira’s still cooperative?”

“Yeah – he’s naturally reluctant to allow the Feds into his workshop and I’ve had to promise to help him move after the Feds clear out – but Ira’s cool.”

Neal’s absorbed by the shape of one of the clouds overhead. It reminds him of a butterfly, or maybe a hummingbird. The breeze picks up and now it’s a raptor stooping for its prey.

“Neal? Neal?”

He turns his attention back to the conversation. “Yeah, Moz?”

“Do you want to be part of the takedown? I could probably get the Demi-Suits to let you watch.”

Neal has to smile at that – Moz is very chummy with Diana and Clinton now. “No – let them do their job. I’ve got nothing to say to Bennett.”

Moz chatters a bit more, filling the space with sound, telling him that it looks like Calloway’s on her way down and out. Neal’s happy to let Moz talk until his phone chirps with call-waiting. He checks – it’s Peter. Neal abruptly tells Moz that he has to go.

Neal sits up. “Hey there.”

“Hey, yourself.”

He laughs. “What are we, teenagers?”

Peter shares his amusement. “You doing okay?”

Neal tells him about the doctor visit. “He says it’ll heal fine. Keep the arm covered until it scabs over, don’t strain the muscles. The usual.” He isn’t going to mention the blood tests, though, and then thinks better of it. “He’s also checking me for hepatitis and HIV.” Neal pauses, and voices his one regret. “I shouldn’t have let you go in bare.”

“Were you clean before?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had unprotected sex since your last blood test?”

“No.” He doesn’t have to even think about that. Carter had suited up, and he and Sara were always careful.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about.” That’s that, and Peter changes the subject. “Have you heard from Moz? He’s had word from your forger friend about James.”

“Yeah – he told me.” Neal wishes Peter wouldn’t call him James, like he’s a friend or someone that should matter to him. “Diana and Clinton have everything under control.” He doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

Peter senses his distress with the conversation, because he drops it and asks, instead, “What are you doing?”

“Finding pictures in the clouds.”

“Pareidolia.”

Neal laughs. “Trust you to know the technical name.”

“Hmm.”

Neal lets the sound of Peter’s voice rumble through him. He has to ask, though. “How’s Elizabeth?”

There’s a pause and it’s just too significant for Neal’s peace of mind. “She’s doing okay.”

“You told me I had nothing to worry about.” And so Neal now _has_ to worry.

“And you don’t. El’s fine. _We’re_ fine. It’s just going to take more than a night and a day to settle back into the normal pace of things.”

He’s not convinced, but he’s not going to make Peter upset by dragging this out. “You’re doing okay?”

“I am, now. The whole drive home, I was a little out of it, everything seemed so hyper real.”

“Yeah – it’s like that.” Neal’s experienced that each time he’s gotten out.

“But when I got home and Satchmo was barking and jumping on me like a puppy when I came through the door, I just – well – lost it. I couldn’t stop crying. I – I thought I’d never see him again. He’s not a young dog and if I never got out …” Peter sounds like he’s on the verge of tears and Neal wants to cry, too.

“If I ever needed an excuse to get you out of there, that was it.”

“I didn’t say it before, but I need to now. Thank you, Neal – for everything.” 

Neal understands there is so much more behind those simple words. It’s there and it doesn’t need to be spoken of because they’ve both acknowledged it.

The silence between them is comfortable and Neal finds that he’s actually happy. It’s like the bubble in Champagne rising to the surface, fizzing in his brain, his bones. Even when Peter says that he has to go (and he can hear Elizabeth and Satchmo in the background), Neal’s still happy.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Elizabeth isn’t a stupid woman. Nor is she blind. She knows that _something_ happened to Peter in prison and she doesn’t know if she can bear to wait for Peter to tell her.

After his breakdown – which was traumatic but in its own way, perfectly normal – Peter returned to the man she’s loved for so many years. He’s worried, of course, about finding Neal’s father, he’s worried that he could go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit, he’s worried that even if that doesn’t happen, he’s lost his job. He’s worried about Diana and Clinton. He’s worried about her. He’s worried about everything. 

Except Neal, apparently.

For the better part of a day, Neal Caffrey’s name doesn’t cross his lips. Peter’s talked with Claude; he’s talked with Diana, with Clinton, with Reese and even with Moz. But he doesn’t call Neal (at least not in her hearing range) and Neal doesn’t come over.

She’s not stupid and she’s not blind and for the better part of the last three years, she’s teasingly urged Peter to do what he’s wanted to do ever since he first met Neal Caffrey. She’s even been serious about bringing him into their bed. Of course she knows that he’ll never act on those desires, not as long as he’s holding Neal’s leash. But it not like that’s going to last forever, right?

And she expected Peter to seal the deal in Cape Verde, but Moz and Kyle Collins were apparently too effective as cock blockers. And there was also the girl from the coffee shop. El was disappointed when Peter came home and told her what didn’t happen. Intensely disappointed.

It’s driving her crazy that Peter’s acting like Neal doesn’t exist. It’s obvious that something happened between them in jail and it’s either very good or really terrible and Elizabeth’s afraid to push, she’s afraid of what she’ll find out.

She’s waiting for Peter to come out of the shower, again. In the twenty-four hours that he’s been home, he’s taken at least four, maybe five showers. She can understand that – he wants to wash away the stink of his incarceration. The shame of it. Then her soul grows cold. Maybe he needs to wash away something else. Peter had laughed off the black eye that first morning, but maybe he was hurt worse that he let on.

She panics and runs into the bathroom. Peter’s still in the shower and he’s … he’s masturbating.

She’s worried that he was raped and the bastard’s in the shower jerking off? 

Elizabeth takes a deep breath and calms down. Getting angry won’t solve anything. She just waits for him to finish and as she watches, she realizes it’s actually kind of arousing. Peter doesn’t know she’s there. He’s working himself in his fist, really pulling at his cock and she rubs her thighs together. She can’t help herself, her hand cups her cunt, pressing the seam of her jeans against her clit in the same rhythm as Peter’s strokes. It’s dirty and perverse and she bites her lip as she comes. Peter comes and she shudders from her own aftershocks.

Peter looks up and sees her. He rinses, turns off the shower and opens the glass door. El doesn’t say a word, just hands her husband a towel, gives him a look and walks out.

She goes into the bedroom and sits down on the bed. She doesn’t understand – she can’t figure this out – but she knows it has something to do with Neal.

Peter’s got a bathrobe on; his hair’s uncombed and poking out all over the place. He looks kind of adorable and El can’t help but smile. She pats the bed and Peter sits down next to her. “Tell me what’s going on. My imagination is only going to make it worse.”

“Neal and I … we – “ Peter stops and looks at her. It’s not precisely guilt on his face.

El makes it easy on him. “Slept together?”

Peter blushes. “Yeah, that too.”

She laughs and pushes at him, she has to. “Why the coyness? Why are you practically pretending Neal doesn’t exist? Do you regret it?”

Peter takes an audibly deep breath, like he’s gearing himself up for something unpleasant. “No, not at all. It’s just – well – it’s complicated.”

El doesn’t see that. “I’ve been telling you to go after him for years. How complicated can it be?”

“Hon – you were so angry at him. You blamed him for this. You said that if I hadn’t gotten involved with his life, none of this would have happened. So yeah, I feel a little guilty about it.” Peter wraps an arm around here. “And honestly, it’s a little weird to come home, have this huge emotional breakdown, and then tell you that I had sex with Neal.”

She can see his point, and she has to clear the air. “I was angry at Neal. _Was_. I’m not anymore.”

“Because he saved my life?”

“Maybe that’s part of it, but also – you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t get involved.” El sighs. “I remember Jimmy Burger. You didn’t stand back with him, either. And his death broke your heart a little, too.”

“El …” Peter pulls her close and she buries her face in his shoulder. They sit like that for a few minutes, remaking the connections between them.

“Was it good?” The imp in her, the little devil that regrets not being witness to Peter and Neal’s first kiss, makes her ask.

Peter chuckles, “Yeah.” Then he turns serious. “Neal – he was afraid that he’d hurt you, that you’d hate him even more than you already do.”

“Have you talked to him since you’ve been home?” 

“I spoke with him a couple of hours ago, when you were out with Satchmo. I just didn’t want to make things worse.” Peter’s voice trails off and El understands.

“How is he?”

“He’s okay.” 

But El doesn’t quite believe Peter. She’s not sure that Peter even believes it, himself. “He’s all alone – that’s wrong. He should be here, with us. We should be with him.”

“El…”

She pulls herself out of Peter’s arms and stands, hands on her hips. She’s as determined as she was fourteen years ago, when she decided that this goofy, gorgeous and slightly dangerous man was going to be her husband. “I’m going to go and get Neal. You have any problems with that?”

His smile is the only answer she needs.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It’s New York and it’s summertime and the weather changes between one moment and the next. Neal’s lazing in the sunshine, his eyes closed, and he lets his mind drift. The thoughts are scattered, diffuse. The light paints rainbows and stars and bursting skyrockets behind his eyelids until a chill wind, damp with rain, makes him open his eyes.

The blue skies are a memory (for the moment). The wind picks up. Neal scrambles to put the cover on the lounger and get inside before the downpour starts. It’s a close run thing. He pulls the French doors shut just as the sky goes black and the deluge begins. He stands at the door, watching the chaos outside. It’s only mid-afternoon, but it’s as dark as midnight. The rain pauses as lightening pierces the sky, followed by a peal of thunder loud enough to send the glass doors rattling.

He doesn’t mind giving up the sunshine for the storm. He likes the feeling of the dramatic, mid-day darkness, the deep and unexpected shadows. Maybe it’s the feeling of sanctuary, that the world could go a little crazy, but here, inside this room, he is safe. It’s a feeling not unlike the moment after the attack on Peter, when they were hustled back to their cell. The building’s old, the seals are imperfect, and some moisture creeps through, dripping down the glass. He traces the path with a finger, even as the thunder peals again, making everything shake.

But it’s New York and it’s summertime and the weather changes between one moment and the next. The storm moves off, leaving who knows what kind of damage in its wake, and the sun burns through the remnants of the dark clouds, gilding their edges in gold and silver.

Neal’s reminded of a Turner or some massive canvas from the Hudson River School – maybe _The Oxbow_ – and he wonders if that should be his next project. He hasn’t attempted a landscape in a long time. But his thoughts turn bleak; Neal can’t forget that conversation with James.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. Biology may count for something, but it’s not everything. He may not know exactly who he is yet, but if the last few days have taught him anything at all, it’s that he’s _not_ his father’s son. 

Neal George Caffrey is thirty-four years old and he’s a work in progress. He can live with that.

There’s a roll of canvas and some stretcher frames in his closet and Neal’s about to go get them when someone knocks on his door. It’s not Moz – the knock is not in iambic pentameter. It’s not Peter, who raps with a lot more authority. And it’s not June, she’s left for the day.

Whoever is there is impatient and knocks again. 

Neal doesn’t bother asking who it is – which is probably stupid and careless – and just pulls open the door. He’s shocked. It’s Elizabeth and she looks like a drowned kitten.

He pulls her inside and the questions spill out in a breathless, panicked rush. “Is it Peter? What’s happened? Have they taken him back to prison?”

Elizabeth’s smile is radiant. “No, Peter’s fine. He’s home, catching up on things, playing with the dog, jerking off. Nothing to worry about.”

Neal blinks. Did Elizabeth actually say that Peter was jerking off? No, he must have imagined that.

“Umm – do you have a towel or something?” Elizabeth gestures to her wet hair and soaked shirt. Neal can’t help but notice her nipples peaking under the fabric.

“Oh, sure – hold on.” He sits her down and runs and gets her a towel and a Japanese _haori_ that he’s used as a robe on occasion. 

She thanks him. “Now, turn your back and be a gentleman.” Despite her words, she doesn’t wait for Neal to look away as she pulls off her soaked tee-shirt. Before he can turn around, Neal catches a glimpse of the ivory-white skin on her midriff and the silk-satin fabric of her bra, a shade darker. 

“Okay – all covered up. It’s safe to look.”

El’s got the robe on, but it’s a men’s garment and fits a little snug across the front. Neal keeps his eyes averted from the gap that gets wider as Elizabeth pulls a brush from her handbag and works it through her hair before drawing it back into a ponytail. 

It’s just a moments and Elizabeth Burke’s transformed from drowned kitten back into the determined woman he knows so well. The transformation is actually unnerving.

“Coffee? A glass of wine?” 

“Coffee would be good, I could use something to warm me up.” Elizabeth shakes out her shirt and rolls it up into the towel to make it dry a little faster.

Neal fusses with the coffeepot, concentrating on getting the measurements just right. Delaying tactics are all well and good, but they can’t be strung out indefinitely. He makes Elizabeth’s coffee (a splash of cream, no sugar), pours a glass of wine for himself and sits at the opposite end of the table. 

She smiles at him. It’s a combination of affection and understanding and something else that Neal can’t pin down. He knows she’s grateful to him for helping Peter through the ordeal in prison. Okay, _for saving Peter’s life._ But gratitude isn’t affection and Elizabeth has every right to be furious with him. But she’s not.

Neal can’t take it any longer. Elizabeth’s looking at him over her coffee cup, smiling at him like she’s the Mona Lisa, and he just has to ask. “If everything’s all right at home, why are you here?”

She leans forward, resting her arms on the table, and her look is even more puzzling. It’s warmer, more affectionate than he expected. “I wanted to know how _you_ are doing.”

Neal smiles back, hoping he looks reassuring. “I’m good. It’s not like I haven’t gotten out of prison before.” He goes on, trying to be witty and entertaining. “June and I were just saying this morning that we’ve got our own post-release ritual now. A Continental breakfast on the terrace, complete with Italian roast, croissants and Champagne.”

Elizabeth doesn’t seem entertained. Her gaze is thoughtful. Then she drops her bombshell. “Peter and I talked. He told me what happened between you two.”

Neal freezes and carefully puts his wineglass on the table before it falls out of his hand. Of course Peter would tell Elizabeth. Neal knows that there are no secrets between this husband and wife. And he remembers Peter’s admonition, “Don’t worry.” But he can’t help but worry. And yet, Elizabeth doesn’t look upset or angry. She looks … happy. That was the quality he couldn’t define before. “Elizabeth – ” He starts to speak but for the life of him, he can’t figure out what to say. He can’t apologize and he can’t lie.

She takes mercy on him. “It’s okay, Neal. It’s more than okay.” She moves to the chair next to him. “I’ve been telling Peter that he’s been a fool for waiting so long. But you know him; there are lines that he won’t cross, even when you’re involved.” Her hand on his arm is like a kiss of fire.

“You know? You’ve known?” Neal wonders just how obvious he’s been about his feelings for Peter.

But Elizabeth is talking Peter’s feelings for him. “He’s loved you for a long time; he’s wanted you even longer than that.”

_“He’s loved you …”_ Everything stops in the breath between those words. Neal knows that Peter loves him. He’s always known, in a way. But hearing the confirmation from Elizabeth makes that knowledge just a bit more real. The world starts spinning again. “And you’re okay with that?”

“I love Peter, he loves me – there is no doubt or question about that. And he loves you, too. I think, maybe, if he didn’t love you, if it was just lust, I’d feel differently.” Her hand slides down his arm and slips into his hand. There’s something tentative about her touch, as if she’s asking permission. He holds her hand like it’s a butterfly at rest, and then brings it up to his lips.

“Thank you.” Neal has a feeling that there’s more to Elizabeth’s words than this. They are a palimpsest. There’s something underneath what she’s just told him and he’ll need time to remove the layers and get to her hidden meaning.

“Come home with me.” There’s no hidden code in that request. “Peter needs you – _we_ need you.” Her hand squeezes his, as tight as a vise.

Neal knows this: he can’t deny Elizabeth anything she wants. Especially when he wants the same thing.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Diana’s watching through the slats of louvered bathroom door, her gun drawn. Clinton’s in a closet at the other end of the loft, also watching and waiting. They’re on radio silence since surveillance in the van notified them that James Bennett was spotted a block away. They don’t want to go after him on the street. It would be too easy for him to run, for them to lose him for good.

She’s got eyes on Ira – first name only, please – and she worries. He’s nervous, pacing and biting at his nails. His eyes keep going to the bathroom where she’s hidden, to the closet where Clinton is. He’s made it clear that he’s doing this only as a favor to Neal and to Moz. He doesn’t like the FBI – that goes without saying – and she worries that his hatred of the Feds will trump his friendship with Neal and Moz and he’ll blow everything. 

Ira’s in the business of making false identification and they really should bust him for every single one of the fake passport blanks in his workshop. But they don’t, because catching James Bennett is a lot more important. 

She wishes that she had more current intel. The waiting game is getting to her and if Ira looks at the bathroom door one more time, she’s going to twist his nuts off.

Patience does pay off. Diana hears the loft’s elevator begin to grind to life. It’s old and it’s slow and she counts her heartbeats wait for it to stop. So far, so good. Ira’s following the plan; he’s staying in the middle of the room, waiting for Bennett to come to him.

Metal clangs and gears groan as the elevator door opens. Bennett steps into the loft and calls out, “You there?” 

This is when it could all go to shit. 

“Yeah, in here.” Ira’s still on the playbook.

“You finish the work?”

“Yeah – you got my money?”

Bennett’s in view, they could take him now. There was some discussion about letting the exchange be made, to get Bennett on some additional Federal charges. Clinton’s leading the op, so the timing of the take down’s his call.

Bennett hands the money to Ira and Ira gives him a manila envelope. 

She hears Clinton’s voice through her earpiece. “Target’s in sight, exchange complete, we’re a go.”

She acts on the signal, bursting out of her concealment with her gun pointed at Bennett. She’s shouting “FBI, hands up and get down on your knees.” Clinton’s calling on the same instructions, advancing on Neal’s father with his gun aimed straight at his face.

Bennett’s hand goes down and Diana spots the silver of a pistol grip. She shouts “gun” and tackles Bennett, pulling his arm back. They both hit the ground. She pushes a knee into the base of his spine, immobilizing him and it’s only a matter of seconds before she’s got the cuffs on his wrists.

Clinton pulls Bennett to his feet and takes the gun out of his waistband. “What have we got here?”

Diana answers, since James certainly won’t. “Looks like the late Senator’s pistol – the one his bodyguard said he was never without.”

Clinton completes the formalities, reading Bennett his rights. They are both sort of shocked when he gets belligerent, demanding, “What are the charges?

“Let’s start with possession of a stolen firearm and go from there.” Agents pour into the loft, but neither Diana nor Clinton will surrender James Bennett to anyone. They’re going to escort him through every step of the processing. No one’s taking any chances.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

It’s a little after five and Reese feels like he could sleep for a week. It’s a hot and airless afternoon and there’s no promise it’s going to cool off any time soon. He’s grateful to find a parking spot near Peter and Elizabeth’s house because he’s too damn weary to trek through the streets of Cobble Hill. He’s had too much coffee and not enough food – typical of long stakeouts followed by longer interrogations – and thinks, _So much for retirement._

But that’s not to say Reese isn’t looking forward to the task at hand. 

He climbs the front steps with more vigor than he thinks possible and rings the bell. The Burkes’ dog is barking and the curtain over the front door shifts. It’s Elizabeth and she opens the door, clearly surprised to see him.

He has a weird moment of déjà vu. Was it really three years since he came here to warn Peter about Fowler and the alleged bribery? Those were simpler days.

“Reese?”

“Can I come in, Elizabeth?” The dog, a big, yellow creature, is sniffing at his feet.

She steps aside, but not before reaching down and pulling the dog away from him. He is a little sorry for that. He likes dogs, and the bigger, the better.

Of course she asks, “Is everything okay?”

He doesn’t answer. “Is Peter home?”

“Yes, we’re out on the patio.” She pats the dog’s rear to send him off to his bed under the air conditioner and takes Reese outside. 

Reese isn’t surprised to see Caffrey with Peter. They’ve each got a bottle of beer and look up at his intrusion. At first glance, both men look well, but there’s a certain wariness there, too.

Peter stands and takes his hand before offering him a seat. Caffrey just looks at him. 

“What brings you here?”

He decides it’s better to get right to the point, no need to string this out. “James Bennett was arrested early this morning. He’s confessed to shooting Terrence Pratt, but insists that it was an act of self-defense.” 

“If he’s confessed, does this mean that the charges against Peter will be dropped? That Peter will be reinstated?” Neal’s first concern is about Peter, it’s always like that. 

“The U.S. Attorney’s office has been informed of Bennett’s statements and there should be a hearing later today or tomorrow.”

“Oh, thank God.” Elizabeth reaches out for her husband, and then for him. “Thank you, Reese.”

Peter thanks him, too, and then gives him a questioning look. “Of all the people I expected to get this news from, you were the last one on the list. Not that I don’t appreciate you coming here to tell us, but aren’t you supposed to be retired?”

He rubs the back of his neck, mildly amused, mildly ill at ease. “Yeah, well, about that.”

There’s a perceptive look in Caffrey’s eyes. He’s probably spoken with the short one and knows what’s going on.

“Reese?” Peter’s impatient, but that impatience is couched in a dawning comprehension.

“Someone filed a report with OPR about Amanda Calloway. Apparently there’s a recording of a telephone call of her tipping off Senator Pratt about the investigation. OPR’s investigating and she may even be facing criminal charges.”

“Really? I’m horrified that a veteran agent would conspire with a politically connected target of a corruption investigation. I have to wonder how the call got recorded and how OPR got hold of it.” 

Reese is amused at how Peter tries to sound shocked. Of course he knows about the recording, and Caffrey does, too. The show is for the benefit of Elizabeth and the off chance that there’s someone listening.

Reese chuckles, it’s a good performance. “Don’t look at me – the first I heard about it was when the Assistant Director asked me to come back and temporarily oversee the division, until permanent a replacement can be found.”

“Asked?” Now Peter doesn’t bother to hide the laughter.

“Okay, begged. But it’s not a long-term thing. I agreed on two conditions. First – that I’ll only stay until they find a replacement. And …” Reese pauses. He knows the value of showmanship and he’s got an appreciative audience. “My second condition is that I will head the selection committee for that replacement.”

Peter’s quick, too quick to respond. “Even if I get my job back, I don’t want yours, Reese. Don’t put me on the short list. I love field work too much.”

_Typical Peter Burke_. “You’ll have your badge back, don’t worry about that. It’s amazing how many more influential friends I’ve got now.” Reese doesn’t tell Peter that his name will be the only one on the list. He’ll just have to learn to manage the administrative side of things. 

They talk about procedure for a little while, tactics for dealing with the inevitable administrative hearing. Elizabeth offers him a beer, which he declines. He gratefully accepts, though, her offer of an iced coffee. He turns to Peter. “Can I have a few minutes with Neal?”

The Burkes and Caffrey look startled, but Peter and Elizabeth leave him with Neal.

Neal’s toying with his beer bottle, chipping away at the paper label with his thumbnail. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t flinch at his gaze, either. This isn’t a man who breaks easily, if at all, Reese thinks.

“Your father – “

“You mean James Bennett.” Neal’s tone is leaden.

“Yes, he – ”

Neal cuts him off again. “Please – don’t refer to him as ‘my father’.” 

“As you wish.” He understands Neal all too well. “James Bennett didn’t confess easily. He declined a lawyer, but he refused to talk about what happened with Pratt. He refused to talk at all after we brought him in.”

“He’s a selfish bastard, so that doesn’t surprise me.” Neal’s retort is calm, measured, as if he’s weighing the cost of every word.

“You should know that it wasn’t until Berrigan told him if Peter went to prison for Pratt’s murder, that your deal with the FBI would be revoked, that we even got a reaction out of Bennett. He didn’t start talking until Jones said you were back in jail, waiting for a transfer to Sing-Sing, where you’d serve out the rest of your sentence.”

Neal blinks, the only sign he’s affected by this information. “Clinton lied, then. I’ve been out since yesterday afternoon.”

“We’re the FBI; we can lie during an interrogation.”

“For the record, I don’t have a problem with that. There’s nothing wrong with lying, especially to serve the greater good.” Neal shakes his head.

Of course Caffrey would see it like that. “Neal, James Bennett would have said nothing, he wouldn’t have confessed to shooting Pratt, he would have been held on a few minor charges and probably walked away if it wasn’t for that lie. He only confessed because he cares about you.”

Neal looks him in the eye, his face hard. “If he is a good man, he wouldn’t have run after shooting Pratt. Peter wouldn’t have had to take the fall for him, he wouldn’t have been arrested. Bad men can do good things, but they are still bad. Whatever Bennett’s motivations are, he’s still a corrupt cop, a liar and a thief and a murderer. Nothing changes that.”

Reese’s heart fills with compassion. It must be a terrible thing to be so disillusioned. “Every child deserves to have a father he can look up to.” 

Neal nods, his gaze going off into the distance.

He has one more thing he wants to tell Caffrey. “I don’t know if it makes any difference, if it makes anything easier, but I would have been proud to call you son. You’re a good man, Neal Caffrey, never doubt that.”

Reese enjoys the shocked look on Neal’s face. He’s glad he’ll have the chance to spend a little more time with him.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Neal watches Hughes and Peter and Elizabeth through the window. They are laughing, at ease with each other. He doesn’t mind being apart from them for the moment, now that the worst of it is over.

He thinks that the past few days are like the yesterday afternoon’s storm, going from brilliant sunshine to unexpected darkness and danger and back to blue skies and sunshine. Almost as if the trauma never happened.

_Almost._

He sees Hughes give Peter a genial clap on the shoulder and kiss Elizabeth’s cheek. He’s leaving. Neal thinks about going in to say goodbye, too. But come Monday morning, he’ll be at his desk, working. He’s pretty sure that Hughes will find something to keep him busy and relatively out of trouble until Peter’s back where he belongs.

After a few minutes, Peter and Elizabeth join him on the patio. Peter takes away the now-warm beer bottle and replaces it with a glass of iced coffee. “What did Hughes want to talk to you about?” 

Of course Peter’s curious, but Neal brushes the question off. “Not important.” That’s not completely true, because Neal is always going to treasure Hughes’ last comments.

Peter sees, he understands. And Elizabeth does, too. They take his hands, pulling him into a gentle embrace. This is his family. He loves and is loved. 

Nothing more needs to be said.

_Fin_


End file.
